


Steel and Salt

by LeafOnTheWind



Series: The Blood of the Mermaid [1]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Also Not In A Deadpool Way Later On, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Blood Kink, Blood Loss, Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Dismemberment, In a Deadpool Way, It's Just NBD For Him, Look He's a Hot Shark-Man Okay, M/M, Mer-Shark Actually, Merman Peter Parker, Not Beta Read, Peter Parker is Still a Superhero, Pirate Wade Wilson, Self-Harm, Wade Wilson is Cursed, but not yet, there will be smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25911340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeafOnTheWind/pseuds/LeafOnTheWind
Summary: Long ago, Wade Wilson was cursed. He has since lost hope in reversing it, but when he hears that he can be cured with the blood of a mer, it seems like an easy decision. Then he meets Peter.(Or: how Deadpool's terrible decision-making skills are shared by the prettiest mer-shark in the Caribbean)
Relationships: Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Quentin Beck/Peter Parker (one-sided), Vanessa Carlysle/Wade Wilson (past)
Series: The Blood of the Mermaid [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020904
Comments: 90
Kudos: 217





	1. The Curse

**Author's Note:**

> I intended this to be a smutty one-shot of Pirate!Wade and Merman!Peter gettin' it on. Clearly that did not happen.
> 
> Given that Peter is a mer-shark, there's going to be a _lot_ of talk about blood in this fic. Like a lot. if you're squeamish about that, I am very sorry.
> 
> Other than that, please enjoy! =)

_BANG!_

The sound of cannonfire shatters in the air along with the wooden mast of the far ship. It’s only a matter of time, now, before it comes down. Deadpool let his laughter ring through the air as he swings across the gap, landing on some worthless mook feet-first. He feels the crack of their neck with a bloody grin and leaps forward across the bow, drawing his swords from their sheaths and through the necks of more idiots as he does.

He’s having an absolute ball, cackling maniacally and cutting a swath through the crowded deck, blood splattering across the wooden floors. His crew members are following him, taking advantage of his distraction to absolutely destroy the opposing crew.

Deadpool lets them have their fun as he makes his way leisurely to the hold, where he knows his real prey is: Councilman Stern. Hilarious name for a shipman, but then he’s not really a shipman. What he’s _really_ after is the ship manifest and Stern’s head. All the goodies being transported are just a bonus. And an incentive for the others, of course; he doesn’t know any of them particularly well, anyway, it’s just kind of hard to run a whole ship on your lonesome. He knows, he tried. He ended up drifting in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle before he swam to safety. He’d lost count of the times he drowned; it’s a long way to land when you have no idea how to navigate.

That’s when he’d met Dopinder, of course. Does _not_ want to be stranded like that again, it sucked.

Someone gets a lucky shot in, and when he turns to them menacingly, they seem just as surprised as he is. He turns to take them out when another BANG rings out, and their legs fall to the ground, missing some important pieces _above_ the legs. Back on his own ship, the _Happy Adventure_ , he sees Domino operating a cannon.

 _Good ol’ Domino, perfect timing as always._ But there’s no time for that right now; he has a councilman to decapitate. He continues his march down, slipping through the hatch as the battle rages on above him.

He’s wandering around, peeking into various rooms, shouting a mocking, “Yoo-hoo! Oh Councilman! I think you’ve taken something that doesn’t belong to you~!” The hallways are weirdly quiet after the commotion up top. Just more silence for him to fill! “Come out, come out wherever you are! I’ll even make it quick, scout’s honor!”

They never come out when he asks. Is it something he says? His mask? The blood spatter on the wall? People can be so unreasonable.

Whatever, doesn’t matter, as the next door he flings open hides the councilman and two probably-bodyguards huddling behind a desk. One of them shrieks when he pops his head ‘round the corner and grins. People always do that, he’s gonna get a complex or something. “There you are! I’ve been looking _everywhere_ for you.”

A shot rings out and he feels a pressure in his chest. He looks down and yep, it’s a through-and-through, and pouts up at them. “Well, that wasn’t very _nice._ ” The bodyguards are dead before they hit the floor, and Deadpool cleans his swords on their silk trousers. They’re his pride and joy, after all, and good care is important. “Now, _Councilman_ , why don’t we talk about that manifest of yours?” He takes a glance at the desk and sees _Ship’s Manifest_ right on top. “Ooh, lucky me! Objective one, complete, ding!” It looks comprehensive to his untrained eye, so Deadpool crumples it up and shoves it into his ridiculously dramatic jacket. He lets a predatory smile grow. “Time for objective two!”

A flash of his katana and a dull _thunk_.

“Mission complete!”

\--

The bell above the entrance to Sister Margaret’s Home for Wayward Girls chimes. Sometimes Weasel really questions why that thing is even there, it’s kind of a miracle it still is to be honest. Given the jumpy nature of his usual patrons, he’ really shocked nobody’s shot it down, or cut it down, or yanked it down and melted it into blob that they then threw at his face.

He’s glad that hasn’t happened yet, he muses, wiping a glass with a rag washed into grayness. He’s less glad, at least outwardly, when he looks up to see the masked face of Deadpool, his long coat sporting yet more stains on stains of blood. His boots are holding up well, considering. At least the muck on the floor is thick enough to prevent stains from seeping in there.

Hah, as if you can see the floor at all to give a shit.

On the plus side, Deadpool is still alive. This is good news; he’s one of Weasel’s oldest kind-of-friends, he’s certainly the longest-lived mercenary pirate he’s dealt with, thus the name. It doesn’t hurt that every time he stops by, he leaves behind hoards of his shell-shocked crew eager to drink their trauma away with the immense amount of money they accrue.

Being a part of Deadpool’s crew is a gamble on the best of days. Deadpool is an absolute maniac, and you’re as likely to die on a single journey with him as you are on a dozen with any other captain. On the other hand, a single journey with Deadpool is likely to keep you flush with treasure for at least a year, even for spendthrifts like that weirdo Xavier, and that’s enough for an awful lot of Hellhouse’s denizens.

Like clockwork, Deadpool heads over to Weasel, reaches over the counter and pours himself a draught of rum. Weasel frowns at him like usual, but ignores it as most of his remaining crew stumbles in after him, wide-eyed and a little unhinged as a rule, but hey, they’re big bucks for the Hellhouse. Weasel nods at a serving girl to prepare some rooms upstairs and notify the adjoining brothel’s Madame; she always appreciates the heads-up, sometimes more than others. Worth it.

Deadpool finishes his rum and pours another. Sometimes Weasel wonders if he even gets drunk. He’s seen him act like it, of course, cheering and hooting and belting out ditties, but… well. It’s no secret Deadpool heals like a motherfucker. With the jobs he takes? Nobody could survive all of that.

Okay, fine, so Dopinder and Blind Al and Domino have too, at least the past few years, but the first two ain’t exactly fighters, and Domino has the Devil’s luck. There’s a reason he’s banned her from the gambling tables. Besides, they’re all mad anyway, you have to be with Deadpool; you either start out mad or end up that way awfully quick. Or you die.

Weasel knows the drill at this point, going through the jobs and marks Deadpool might find interesting in return for a few—okay, a lot of coin. There’s a sugar trader marked to pass by a neighbouring island soon, a British ship Deadpool might be interested in, and… yeah, that’s more important. Deadpool has a standing order-not-an-order for anything magic-related, witches, curses, anything Weasel might hear. While he’s never told Weasel _why_ he cares so much about magic, even to the exclusion of a legitimate mark, it’s not terribly hard to figure out.

Deathless he may be, but Deadpool’s faceless too, or as good as. Nobody’s seen his face, hell, any real skin in years, only glimpses through the tears in his clothing that indicate wounds no normal man would live through. He’s never injured, even if you’d just seen him take a dagger to the gut, but his skin is mottled with scars, raised and pitted and shifting even as you look. It’s a real shame. If you ignore the skin and weird mask, he’s clearly a good-looking guy, tall with broad shoulders, sharp jawline, a face expressive enough it shows even through the mask he keeps on all the time.

Everyone and their mother knows magic’s nearly dead around here, but he’s grown kind of fond of the bastard, and so keeps an ear out anyway. This time he actually has something to report.

By the time he’s finished talking, Deadpool is out the door. Dick.

He continues wiping down the glass. It doesn’t get any cleaner.

\--

On the end of a small road on the outskirts of the village, there is a cottage. This is not where Deadpool goes to see the witch, because this is where a little old lady lives, and has for years. She sells incredible food with all these spices from the continent and who knows where else, but it is melty, crunchy, cheesy goodness that definitely has Deadpool popping in whenever he’s even vaguely nearby.

Instead, he goes to the local apothecary. There have been chemists in and out over the years, this island with its rough population gets an awful lot of injuries to treat and goes through poultices like it’s going out of style, yet are suspiciously well-funded. Like his probably ex-crew. It’s ridiculously lucrative, but also very high-stress, is the point. People don’t _usually_ try to threaten the apothecary into treatment, that’s a quick way to get poisoned, but some people are not particularly smart about these things, so there’s a lot of turnover.

This one has lasted eight months. He watches for an additional week, and it is extremely boring. She treats one of his own (ex-)crew members that first day, as well as two more when another ship pulls in a few days later. She makes a poultice for that old lady with the food to soothe her arthritis, she calms a hysterical kid—that Russell kid again?—when he sets something on fire and fills her shop with a purple smoke while putting out the fire, evacuating the square, and clearing the air.

Deadpool gets a whiff of the smoke and is knocked flat on his back on the neighboring rooftop, waking an hour or two later after dreams of avocados and fish having a fancy dance party and weaving baskets out of seaweed. Avocados would _never_ have a fancy dance party with fish, that doesn’t even make sense.

How suspicious. 

So anyway, he breaks into her home above the shop and rifles through her cabinets, but like, politely. He doesn’t want to make a bad first impression, after all. That couch calls to him, and he reclines on it dramatically. Less comfy than it looks, for sure, but then he doesn’t really feel comfortable when he’s on land anymore.

His search definitely confirmed she’s a witch, though, and based on the bowl of goose entrails in the bathroom, she knows he’s there, and she left it out when she knew he was coming so she doesn’t mind _him_ knowing that she knows that he knows. At least, if she knows that he knows what it means.

Fucking magic.

When she opens the door, exhausted, she doesn’t even have the temerity to look surprised, walking right past him to set the kettle on.

“Look, we both knew you were going to be here, and I can guess why, but that doesn’t mean that we have to be uncivilized about it,” she says, resigned.

Deadpool blinks in surprise. He really shouldn’t, given the whole haruspicy _thing_ in the bathroom, but he barely recognized it as soothsaying anyway, so the more you know!

“Aw, b-e-a-utiful, that can make this go _so_ much more smoothly!” he exclaims, sitting up with a swoop of his arms.

“Just… make it fast? Please?” Her hands are shaking as she pours two cups of tea, spilling a little of the steaming liquid on her small countertop. “And please, don’t hurt him. He’s just a child. He’s _just a child_.”

Okay, he’s heard this before, but this is not the context in which that usually happens. Well, not that specific bit; he doesn’t hurt kids, dammit! Is it his swords? He glances back, not self-consciously (he could never be self-conscious about his babies!) but contemplative. Eh. Not like he’s gonna leave them behind, that’s just silly.

“Nah, I’m not here to kill you, don’t you worry your pretty little head,” he waves off cheekily. “Not _today,_ at least. Like, I didn’t come here with the _intent_ of killing you, though that can certainly change, so don’t go bullshitting me, yeah?” She nods frantically, visibly confused.

“But… if you’re not… why are you here? Everyone’s warned me that, well, you’re obsessed, and the only other things you’re obsessed with tend to, ah, die.” Her thin fingers twist at her apron as the tea steeps beside her.

“Ugh, see, this is why stereotypes are bad, okay?” He pauses and remembers his frankly terrible track record of keeping things alive and reconsiders. “...Okay I can see where you’re coming from. _Anyway_ not what we’re talking about.” Deadpool jerks himself to the edge of the seat. The witch doesn’t look up as she approaches, the whites of her eyes still visible as she focuses very hard on not spilling the tea she holds. God, this is getting old. “For fuck’s sake, lady, I’m not here to kill you! I told—you know what, it’s fine. This is fine. Everything’s fine. How are you? Ignore that. I’m here to ask about blood curses.”

Somehow, she manages to blanch more at that. “B-blood curses? No, I… I won’t, I _can’t_ , I’m not that kind of witch.” She’s clearly terrified, but manages to put on a brave face, even if her eyes are shining with unshed tears.

“ _Curing them_ , dumbass.” He pulls out a tattered book, barely the span of his palm, inexpertly bound in raw vellum as if by a child. The pages are barely holding together, dog-eared heavily and faded with the sea air, worn soft with use. He opens to the first few pages, splotched with blood and barely-legible lines scrawled across at an angle. Notes have been added and scribbled out and rewritten until they’ve dented the page. In the middle, there is a crude sketch of a man with close-cropped hair and no beard, what might be ears, might be axes flanking his face. It’s surrounded by tiny stick figures, killing miniatures of the man in a variety of gory ways.

_~~AJAX~~ _ _FRANCIS_

“Do you know this man?” Deadpool thrusts the drawing towards her face, and she flinches back. “Francis? He’s super dead now, of course, took care of _that_ decades ago, but his work? _His curses?_ ”

“I, I—”

“I have a description of what was done,” he says, pulling back the book and turning it sideways to read in the margin, “ _Injected with serum, couldn’t breathe COULD—_ okay I can see how this isn’t particularly helpful for you.”

“I do, actually,” the woman interjects. “Know of _an_ Ajax, at least, I mean, he was—he’s used as a cautionary tale, now, I was telling—doesn’t matter.” Now that she has a way out, the witch (he should really get her name) leaps for it. She stands abruptly, rushing to the small bookshelf holding a variety of strange liquids and grabbing one. “Ajax was a very peculiar man, caused so much suffering—and I’m sure you know all about that,” she cuts off at his growl. “If, if you’re one of the ones described in the tales, then I might have a solution. Maybe.” 

The witch hands over a tiny flask, barely the size of her own pinky, half-full of a dark red liquid. Deadpool takes it from her, tilting it and peering through it at the candlelight as if it holds the answers unto itself. “It might help, it certainly won’t make it worse.” She takes a breath, calmer now that she’s in more familiar territory, diagnosis, treatment. She can do this. If there’s one thing Deadpool has learned ~~stalking~~ performing reconnaissance, it’s that she is a remarkably competent chemist. “A drop on your skin. Anywhere should do.” 

He opens the flask and sniffs. Iron. “What is this stuff?” He peers at her suspiciously. There have been plenty of instances when he’s practically bathed in blood, yet he’s clearly still afflicted.

“Blood of a mer. Not toxic through the skin, nor should it have any adverse effects, though you won’t want to drink it in large quantities. One drop, please.”

Her fidgeting is getting annoying, and really, what’s the worst that could happen? He dies? Oh no, what a tragedy. He’d be pretty pissed, he thinks, to die at this point. Slowly, he tilts the container. The fluid—blood—runs down the neck. Time moves like molasses, thick and slow and heavy; it always does when he feels he’s getting closer. He dreads these moments as much as he reaches for them, the hope more painful than the drudgery of everyday non-death. It reaches the lip of the bottle and forms a thick bead.

The drop falls.

_And his skin clears._

Where the droplet lands, a patch of scarless, _painless_ skin blooms from the point of contact, smooth and tanned. The witch plucks the vial out of his hand before it can spill as he shakes violently, bringing his other hand to his face as he stares unblinking at the _skin_. Deadpool feels a hysterical giggle bubbling up from his chest. 

Then it starts to recede. The scars grow towards it, the pain returns, feeling thrice as terrible after the brief respite.

“Wait, what? No, no _no **NO!**_ ” No, this can’t be, he can’t be so _close and_ he turns to the witch, furious. _How dare she_.

A much larger book thunks down in front of him, the witch tense yet but otherwise focused on flipping through the fine paper pages, thin enough to be practically see-through. She appears to find the passage she sought, tracing the neat print with her short nails. “Yes, that lines up. It’s as I thought.”

“ _What is as you thought_ ,” Deadpool grits out, his patience heavily strained after decades of searching.

“What you’re currently holding is mer blood, as I said. Very, very hard to come by, most witches aren’t exactly the fighting type and it’s not very useful outside of magic, but it’s _very_ valuable for more niche, intensive things.” The witch settles into the seat across from him. “The most potent poisons and antidotes, temporary powers, breaking curses of course; when used properly, mer blood is incredibly powerful. I’ve not had cause to use it, well, ever, but when one comes across mer _anything_ for sale, one snatches it up before any other witch can.” She grimaces, playing at her apron again. “It’s a tool which, like any other, can be used for good or ill.” 

Deadpool does not care at all about this crap. “Uh-huh. Exposition, great, love it, _please_ get to the plot-relevant bits.”

She seems affronted, but settles with a thought. “Right. Um. Anyway, it seems your curse,” she gestures at the passage she’d been tracing earlier, “is a bit more powerful than your usual. That makes sense, you said it was blood-done, therefore it must be blood-undone. Normally, this would call for the blood of the caster with a specific potion, but you mentioned he’d been, ah, dead for a while.” An eyebrow quirks. He just glares. “Right, so you need something more powerful, and it just so happens that mer blood is perfect for this. What is less perfect is, um, as I said, it’s rather rare, so,” she trails off sheepishly.

“So?”

“So… this is all I have.” The vial once more appears, the single drop used already noticeably reducing the amount available. “And with the power of your curse, blood-borne, it needs to be cured all at once, every shred eliminated, or it will grow back from the slightest trace of contamination, as you saw.” She sits nervously, waiting for his inevitable explosion, hoping this is enough for him to leave her in peace.

Deadpool does not notice. He looks at the book as if it held the secrets of life, the universe, and everything, like it’s the most valuable thing in the world; for him, it is. “That is super attainable! All I have to do is get a shit-ton of mer blood and I’m golden? That’s, like, one thing! God, I could’ve done this _years_ ago! I could _kiss_ you!” He drops the tome with a bang and blows a big ol’ smooch her way, complete with sound effects, downing the tea through his mask (pinkies up!) and rushing to the door.

Bewildered, the witch comments, “You seem far more enthused about the prospect of hunting a mer than, ah, anyone I’ve heard.” Normally even the prospect sets sailors trembling in their boots or running for their cutlass.

“Mers are monsters, predators drawn to blood and death and shiny gems.” Deadpool feels his scarred lips pull into a grin with far too many teeth. “And those things I know very well indeed.” The door slams shut behind him.

\--

The next day sees him humming, jubilant with a hint of manic as he fusses around his ship. He finally has a use for all those sparklies he’s been paid in. At least gold has immediate value, can be exchanged for goods and services, he muses as he tightens a knot. Gems have to be weighed, and inspected, and cut nicely, and it’s just too much work.

This is also a lot of work, of course. He admires his newly bedazzled ship, thick cords of hempen rope hanging from the gunports and rails into the water below. A full day and night has passed since he spoke with the witch and she revealed the cure, and he’s spent much of that completing his preparations.

This is the last cord which, like all the other thirty-odd ropes, is dripping with jewelry and gems they’ve stolen in the past. Tied to it are emeralds the size of his thumb and silverware he’s polished far more than he’s ever bothered in the past, rubies that glisten like blood beside shards of hazy green glass from his windows, broken just this evening. Anything that sparkles, shines, or shimmers on the ship is attached. He hopes it is enough, and drops the free end into the sea.

“A mer hunt, ‘Pool? Really? I knew you were suicidal but this seems a bit much, even for you.”

He’d sent a messenger with a copper to announce in HellHouse he’s bound to leave port soon in search of a mer. Blind Al always brings a smile to his face even as she spits in it. “Oh, shut up, Al, who wants to retire, anyway?” To a point, at least.

His regulars are tossing bags up to deck. Dopinder is never going to abandon him at this point, Al can’t. Domino still seems to be tagging along. Never really understood why, but you don’t shoot a gift horse in the mouth, or something. It’ll be a skeleton crew at best, but he expected that.

Now for the final touches. Deadpool cuts open his arm to an artery and drags it along the railing, letting the rough wood tear it open as he goes, tearing and healing and tearing and healing. The pain is there, but he can hardly hear his crew’s questions through the beating of his heart reverberating in his skull. He makes a full circuit before he pulls away and lets his arm heal more fully. The ship looks like a crime scene, metal and salt mixing in the air, and Deadpool blinks away the spots in his vision as his curse regenerates his lost blood before calling out orders to unmoor.

It’s time to hunt a mer.


	2. The Mermaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter mulls over his life, goes to work, fights a villain, and finds an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter twoooooo!
> 
> For the most part, the chapters will be alternating viewpoints because of who I am as a person.

Peter wasn’t always a mer-shark. He’s not even entirely positive he is one now. Mer-sharks exist, of course, they’re faster, stronger, more maneuverable than just about any other mer, but they’re loners. Mer-sharks, as a rule, tend to avoid others of their kind, and only really show up to prey on others. Even then, mers are usually much more difficult targets than the fish and other creatures around, so mer-sharks are usually just handled with a light touch and considerable suspicion if they do come around.

Peter couldn’t live like that if he tried. He’d considered it for a moment, not hiding what had happened to his beautiful ochre tail. His fins grew harder and sharper, his scales that used to shine in the sunlight smoothed into a bland gray-and-white skin. He’s relieved when he checks his mouth to find his teeth, yes, sharper and more pointed, but only filling one row.

The first time he goes on patrol and loses teeth in a fight, he’s even more relieved when he feels them growing back, just as sharp and deadly.

But Peter loves so, so easily. He loved his parents, before they died when he was barely out of the egg. He loved Uncle Ben and Aunt May who took him in when he needed it the most. He loves his friends Ned and MJ so much for being there for him, even when they found out about his change. He’ll owe them until he dies for it.

When Peter shows back up to work with his tail shrouded, his coworkers assume it’s disfigured or otherwise injured. He’d never been over-proud, but he’d never hidden his scales before. He lets them think that.

Every morning just the same, Peter leaves his humble home to go to work coiling and sculpting for the Daily Conch. His boss yells at him, he takes it in stroke, he leaves for the day and visits May. She’s getting on in years, her hair white, her scales losing their lustre. He brings her some food and some company. After Ben passed, he can’t bear to leave her for too long, though she knows he has his own life now. She’s urged him to find a beautiful mer to settle down with, someone he can love (he loves _so easily_ , but he’s been burned before, with Gwen and Liz and Harry and—), raise a few clutches, have what she had with Ben, but she doesn’t press when he prevaricates.

He visits with Ned, sometimes, to build together, though so much of his home is now taken up by his first clutch with Betty. He visits with MJ, sometimes, and commiserates about the stupidity of the mers around them. He loves them, and they love him. He goes home.

And then, when the light begins to fade and the waters cool around town, Peter finally sheds his wrappings and does what nobody else seems to: he protects his city.

His being a mer-shark (partially? Fully? Who knows) means he has advantages. He’s stronger, faster, more maneuverable. His tail doesn’t gleam in the dim night, and he’s made nets to trap those he catches.

Sometimes there will be petty crimes, theft, muggings. It’s not hard to trap them against the walls of the city and leave them.

Sometimes on stormy nights, there will be a wreck sinking slowly down towards the sea floor; those are the busy nights. He has to save people who are drowning ( _so many people drowning at once_ ) without anyone seeing him, he has to redirect the wreck from any reefs or dwellings that might be blocked, he has to get the humans he saves somewhere safe, where they’ll be found, before they wake and see him.

Once, early on after his change, he let someone see him and leave. They came back for him, and got Uncle Ben. He doesn’t let it happen again.

On the more interesting nights, he’ll come across one of those who are more prepared for the threat he poses. Doc Oc, a mer-octopus with even more limbs fused to his back. Mysterio, a mer whose illusions make it almost impossible to tell what is reality. Kingpin, a mer-crab whose claws reached into every level of the city’s underworld. Those are the most interesting and fun, but they’re also the most likely to have collateral damage.

Tonight, it’s quiet. Peter is keeping a nose out for any trouble and finds a small group breaking into a jewelry store. He nets them up and keeps patrolling. He likes quiet nights, it means people are safe, but it also means he has time to think. What might have happened if he’s been a bit faster? A bit more cautious?

He doesn’t like quiet nights. He goes home to his empty studio.

\--

There’s blood in the water. Peter’s eyes glaze over as he’s coiling his latest article for publication, his hands slowing as they complete the last knot. Oh, that smells… _delicious_.

Being ( _part_ ) mer-shark isn’t all superpowers and glory; it also comes with a few less approachable changes. Being able to smell blood from several miles is useful as all hell when patrolling, but sometimes it smells far more appetizing than he’s comfortable with. Especially when he’s caught off-guard, Peter occasionally has to concentrate to bring himself back and under control. On patrol, it’s fine, he’s looking for it, he’s ready to push back. When coiling, though…

Peter is halfway to the door before he comes back to himself. He stumbles, but the scent still means someone’s in trouble, injured at least, so he shouts back to Jonah about a family emergency. The mer-whale is screaming after him, he knows, but Peter was quicker than him even before the change.

He slips out of the office and sheds his wrappings, donning his other identity and shooting out from the alley behind.

He’s almost to the edge of the settlement when he’s blindsided by screeching nearby. _Tch_. Peter diverts his course. He wants to help as many people as he can, and hopefully this one won’t take too much time, just a standard mugger or something similar.

The smell of metal and grease puts an end to that optimism. _Mysterio_.

Why can things never be easy?

He leaps into the fray.

Fighting against Mysterio is confusing and disorienting on the best of days. He can somewhat keep reality straight based on the scents around him, but blows coming out of nowhere and the world spinning around you can be incredibly difficult to work around. You can’t tell if the screams you’re hearing are genuine bystanders in harm’s way or just another distraction.

Normally, that is. The stranger’s scent hasn’t faded a bit, and without the ambient smells to ground him, Peter is doing terribly.

Mysterio is just the worst. At least the others, you know how you’re doing. With him, it’s impossible to know who to trust, bystanders could be him, the vortex approaching the building could be him, your closest friends could be him.

Peter grits his sharp teeth and brings his arm up to his face. This part is the worst. He bites down and feels the sting of salt water against his new injuries. It’s frustrating that this is the most efficient way he’s found to escape the illusions. Yes, Peter can smell his way around now, and his danger-sense is incredibly useful, but not being able to tell reality from illusion is incredibly unnerving, and has lead him to inadvertently damage buildings and endanger innocents before.

Mysterio is half the reason his reputation is so bad. The other half is of course his tail. Speciesists. This is why he has to hide it all the time in his normal life.

It appears (and so often in this case, Peter cannot trust what appears to be) that Mysterio has fled again. Why he insists on causing havoc, only to leave after taunting Peter—it doesn’t make sense, but at least he is able to stop the danger most of the time. He frowns. This time was easier than most, though.

Not one to look a gift seahorse in the mouth, of course, Peter raises his face unnecessarily to test the waters again. There’s the remnants of their spat, some shattered coral, the metallic taste of his bubble helmet that Mysterio leaves behind every time, and—sweetness. The blood is still there.

Peter bites his lip and shoots off in that direction. How long has it been? Ten minutes? Twenty? It’s a human, he can tell that much, and for them to have bled this much… how much have they lost?

God, he hopes they’re still alive. Fishing bodies out of a wreck is one of the worst experiences he’s ever had, and if this person dies because Peter was too slow, because he was distracted by Mysterio—

No, he can’t think like that. _When you can do the things I can, and don’t, then when bad things happen, they happen because of me._ No. Ned’s talked this over with him, dammit. Not his fault, not his fault, not—he’ll do his best, and that’s all he can do.

Not that he really believes it. Every death is a blow.

A mile and a half out of town and the scent of blood is growing thick in the water. Still speeding along, Peter catches a glimpse of something shiny in the direction he’s already going and redoubles his efforts. _Is it metal? Was there a fight?_

But as he grows nearer, the ship (for what else could it be?) clears, and it’s _beautiful_. Peter forgets himself and approaches far closer than he would normally, his eyes sparkling in delight as he takes it in. Oh, what a _treasure_. He’s reaching out to touch one of these delightful lines of jewels trailing as the ship moves—look at that _necklace_ —when he catches himself.

The ship has stopped. Peter freezes and darts his gaze up, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. _Danger_. Not immediate, not yet, but enough to be cautious. He backs up to a decent distance, not breaking the surface but close enough to see through the distortion.

The smell of blood is beginning to disperse. Suspicious, Peter takes a turn around the ship, looking for anyone flailing (or not), looking for the source of the blood, anyone wounded or—but it appears to be the ship itself, starboard side. There’s a gap in the railing and a man sitting on the open ledge, one arm propped on a knee, the other leg hanging off the side.

Peter has to remind himself to breathe, and stops himself from surfacing. He only has a distorted view, but what he does see he _likes._ Even from this distance, Peter can tell the man is built, with broad shoulders and muscular thighs, dressed in blacks and reds like a warning.

Peter’s tail is a warning too.

For a moment, Peter thinks they make eye contact, though both of their eyes are covered. His heart picks up with a shiver.

…Either way, it looks like there’s no trouble here, and Peter isn’t useful, clearly. He hesitates, but turns away to return to the Daily Conch. He half-turns back for one last glimpse of the man. It’s not like he’s likely to come across the same ship twice, so he indulges himself one last time before swimming off.

He can feel eyes on him that linger long after he leaves the ship behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Peter. You think this is the last you've seen of the _Happy Adventure_. My sweet summer child.


	3. The Refuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our two idiots meet, and their plans change.

Two weeks of nothing. Deadpool knows there are mers around here, dammit, this is the general area that nerdy wimp from SI came from, spewing tales of being saved by a mer of all creatures after a storm. Yeah, right. That guy disappeared pretty quickly afterwards, of course, but he’s sure to pop up again sometime, he’s like a friggin’ cockroach.

Either way, he knows this general area is right to a few square miles, but it’s been slow going. Working the ship with only four people is a pain and a half, even if they are going a quarter as fast as usual in the daytime. At night, they pause; no need to waste time. The shiny cords only sparkle in the daylight.

Huh, maybe they’re nocturnal.

…

Maybe if this doesn’t pan out after completing the grid, he’ll do the thing in reverse, all at night. What a drag, he muses, dragging Bea down his arm again. He’s been doing this every hour, on the hour, re-releasing blood into the sea. He’d do it more often, he’d survive, but frankly, it’s uncomfortable, and this way Wade is ready for a mer should they arrive. He checks quickly behind him, seeing the weighted nets and single harpoon should it be necessary.

It shouldn’t be.

He’s getting a little lightheaded again, so he sits on the loading section of the deck, dangling his legs off the side, and lets his arm close up. _Boring_. He brings a leg up, propping his healing arm on top, and watches as it knits itself back together, the clean line quickly overtaken by the ever-morphing lattice of scars. Uncomfortable doesn’t matter, not really. He tastes his cure with every breath of the sea air, with every whiff of his self-inflicted injuries.

He unclenches his fist. Much as he trusts the others, as much as he trusts anyone in this world, this whole trip has left him raw and bloody, exposed in a way he’s not felt in a long time. He doesn’t like it.

He begins scanning again with a sigh when he spots… something. His heart picks up, his back straightens. “Domino—”

“Already on it, boss-man!” He glances back and sees her messing with the rigging and feels the ship begin to slow already. She is just so on top of shit.

His eyes narrow again, focusing on finding that dark spot among the waves—there! It’s circling, like he’d expected, just a little too far for him to reach easily. “Come on, come on, look how shiny we are! So pretty! Who can say no to this gorgeous face!” he mutters. The dark-spot-that-may-or-may-not-be-a-mer slows to a stop as if they heard him. “Shiny, pretty, bloody, we’ve got everything, the hottest nightclub in the Caribbean, come into my parlor, Domino can we move a little closer?”

When he looks back down, the spot almost seems assessing, ponderous. It dives and fades until it’s indistinguishable from the darkness below.

“Dammit. At least we know we’re in the right spot now.”

\--

The _Happy Adventure_ anchors there, in the middle of nowhere, miles and miles from any landmass, inhabited or otherwise. Deadpool worries at his gloved thumb, tearing apart the fabric and bleeding and healing. They know one combination that brought them a dark-spot-that-may-or-may-not-be-a-mer. Early-to-midafternoon, sunny, as they expected; that time of day really shows off his décor’s good side. It’s the optimal time for the sun to reach and refract off of the glass and jewels hanging below, at least when they were in motion. Now, perhaps early mornings or evenings?

And they arrived about half an hour after the most recent bloodletting.

Deadpool might be a wildcard, but he’s damn good at his job. He’ll try the same recipe for a few days, focusing on that time period, bleeding a little more heavily, see if anything turns up. If not, he’ll shift to near sunset and sunrise, see if that helps.

So he does, and before he shifts the schedule, they do. He bleeds, the probably-mer shows up just out of range, circles the ship and leaves when it sees nothing in the water, same as the first time.

He needs to get it to come closer. He doesn’t have any fresh meat, it spoils so fast, and there’s no fish in the water to capture and use as bait, probably due to the mers themselves. Naturally, Deadpool uses the only fresh resource he has: himself.

The crew would stop him, of course, or at least Dopinder would (he’s such a crybaby when it comes to dismemberment) so he proceeds to not tell them when he cuts off his leg. It’s no biggie, they know that, and yet they would freak out. Jeez, you’d think he’d die or something. Seated, he tosses it into the water casually, leaning his stump over the edge so he’s draining into the water below as well. Wow, okay, a lot of blood this time. Whatever, he grumps, grabbing at the net in preparation. If this doesn’t bring it in, he doesn’t know what will.

He’d probably go for a swim, he muses. It’s the reasonable next step, and it’s unlikely that the mer will be able to kill him. Being pulled down and drowning and resuscitating as a cycle sounds terrible, though, way too reminiscent of when he was cursed in the first place. No, he’d really rather not.

He spots the probably-mer in record time—or is that just a dark spot in his vision? Eh—swimming much faster than usual, not bothering to circle the ship before heading right to where his limb dropped to and diving down deeper. _It’s in range._ He has to act fast. Deadpool grabs onto the railing next to him, pulling himself up to stand on his one remaining leg, and starts to call out to Domino to grab the nets, but suddenly his head is _pounding_ , he already grabbed the nets, didn’t he? and hey, the water seems much closer than—

\--

When Wade comes to, he’s on the world’s worst beach. It’s dark, for sure, and there’s no sand beneath his hands, only the unnerving stability of land, in this case a rough, flat stone, maybe shale. He can feel small puddles of water beneath him, though everything he’s wearing is soaked and freezing. Water rises and recedes along his remaining foot through a saturated boot. The air, still and quiet but for the soft rush of the waves, smells of rock pools and algae, so that clarifies exactly nothing.

It doesn’t sound like anyone is around, at least he doesn’t hear anyone breathing or shifting at all, and he wonders what the hell happened. How long has he been here? The last thing he remembers is falling off the side of his boat like a very badass idiot.

He stretches out like a cat, faux-leisurely as the case may be, as he takes stock of himself. His leg is still missing, though it’s starting to grow back in. So is his coat; he liked that coat, dammit! It was the perfect balance of fashion, function, and drama! His mask is partially off, as well, rolled up above his nose, meaning someone was here and saw him unconscious and vulnerable. Well, as vulnerable as he can get. Fortunately his mask is still there at all. Small blessings.

His slightly-tattered gloves, check, his one remaining pant leg, check, his normally-billowy undershirt, partially untucked but check. Missing a boot, but that can be explained by his missing foot on that side. Deadpool remembers setting it beside the harpoon before chopping off his leg. A good pair of boots is hard to come by, after all, and this pair is his favorite, dashing _and_ comfortable.

He shimmies around a little, and yep, there’re definitely some pebbles in his boot. And in his shirt. And his pants. Pant? He sits up to deal with that whole Thing and see if he can’t find some wood or something to burn and signal his ship from here, or possibly whoever rolled up his mask, when he spots it.

The cave he’s in is dark, it’s true, but it feels impossible for the mercenary not to have noticed the creature, sitting still and silent as the walls themselves, eyes seeming to glow a honey in the limited sunlight shining through the ceiling. His breath hitches.

Shit, he’s— _it’s_ —gorgeous. Its warm brown hair, curly and frizzed with salt, is held back with small braids among his loose curls, each pinned with a clean, smooth bead. Wide glowing eyes—ooh, ominous—somehow appear innocent despite the claws he sees tipping its strong, elegant fingers, despite the glint of sharp white teeth behind full lips, despite the shark’s tail flowing from a muscular, narrow waist and into the shallows.

Of course. Of fucking _course_ Deadpool would get a mer- _shark_ out of all the possibilities, alone and—he knows they’re missing, but checks anyway—without his beloved katanas. Fuck fuck _fuck_ , the beast is right there, yet he can’t _get what he needs_. If he had even a single blade, even a particularly sharp _rock_ —he bites his cheek in frustration, his mouth filling with a coppery tang.

Wait. A coppery tang. He looks thoughtfully at the mer’s sharp fangs. That could work, if he only had a vessel…

“Are you alright?” the creature asks, almost whispering, and Deadpool’s thoughts about how to gut it with its own teeth come to a screeching halt.

_Mers can talk?_

“Uh,” he replies eloquently.

“I mean, I know you’re missing a leg, of course, that probably hurts,” the mer continues, getting flustered. “Um, I know you’re starting to regrow it already, which, super cool! I didn’t know whether it would, but I guess because you still have the other one it’s fine? And, uh, I have the old one here if that helps?” Those vivid eyes blink slowly, eyelashes glistening, _what big eyes you have_ , as he— _it_ —lifts up Deadpool’s old leg from the water. Huh, he usually doesn’t keep them as souvenirs or anything, kinda weird to think about.

Is he a renewable resource? Something to ponder.

“Uh,” he’s usually more chatty than this, anyone who’s been in a room with him longer than thirty seconds will tell you Deadpool never shuts up, “nope, no need here, it’s, y’know, growing back just fine. Grower, not a shower. Ha, kidding, I’m both.” The mer tilts his— _its goddammit_ —head inquisitively.

“Anywhoodles, have you seen my ship around? Definitely adequately staffed, says _The_ _Happy Adventure_ in gigantic letters on the side, about yea tall,” he just points up, “mighta seen me do an accidental swan dive off the deck? Whaddaya think, ten out of ten, right? Nah, you’re right, shoulda done a flip.”

The mer, until now seeming far more benign than expected, bares his teeth at the mention of his dive. Deadpool is almost relieved to be back on familiar ground (ha), and braces himself for a lunge while he babbles, intending to flip it over himself and… and it’s calmed back down.

“You… you just _fell_. You’ve been bleeding for _days_ and now you fell off your ship missing a limb and nobody even tried to catch you!” Is… is he crying? “Are they hurting you? Are they _torturing you?_ Did you jump on purpose to get away?”

He’s really getting himself worked up, fluttering his hands and some of his fins, hyperventilating—can mers hyperventilate? Really shoulda done more research before trying to hunt one down. Hindsight sure is 20/20. “God, I should’ve stopped this after the first time, it never should have escalated this much. _Shit_ , and now you’ve seen me, too, so you’re probably gonna—no, not about me, right now,” a deep breath in, out.

A moment later, he continues. “Okay.” Deadpool is so confused right now. He doesn’t like it. “I know you’re probably disoriented, and confused,” he’s right there at least, “and, and threatened.” The mer wilts, and Wade gets the very explicable urge to comfort him. To get close. For the blood. That is definitely the only reason.

“I know mers have, uh, kind of a bad rap up top, but, um, I smelled your blood and saw you there on the edge, and then you _fell_ , and, well, I didn’t—still don’t know if the people on that ship were the ones hurting you, or anything, so I took you here instead. I, I’m guessing they weren’t” he continues sheepishly, “as you asked if I’ve seen your ship? Unless you’re trying to avoid it, I guess.”

Deadpool doesn’t usually encounter people who manage to talk _more_ than he does, but he is nothing if not flexible (in more ways than one, hey-o!) when the situation calls for it. This might be easier than he thought. A bleeding heart, clearly, pun intended.

Okay, situation understood.

Goal 1: get back to the _Happy Adventure_ and his bestest friends in the whole world  
Goal 2: get this ~~really pretty~~ creature back to the ship with him  
Goal 3: trap it to harvest his blood for the world’s most morbid bath bomb

One step at a time.

“Nah, don’t worry about them, everyone on that ship has a heart of gold, pinky promise. Besides, you think they could take these guns?” The mer blushes as he flexes his arms and does _not_ stare at him. “I heal fast anyway, as you can see,” Deadpool continues, wiggling his tiny baby toes.

“Then… what in the _ocean_ detached your leg?”

“My leg? Bah, it’s just a flesh wound, happens all the time!” Okay, he’s laying it on a little thick, give him a break. Besides, it’s not exactly indicative that he’s fine where he is when that leads to him self-dismemberment, and he can’t precisely tell him that he was trying to attract one of his kind to harvest their blood, that would go over real well, he’s sure. “Really, I do have to get back, though. Papá said I had to be home by sundown, else he’ll never give us his blessing!” He accompanies this with a dramatic flourish, he’s got a case of the vapors, a fluttering of his nonexistant eyelashes. Not that the mer could see even if he had eyelashes, with his mask still half-on, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“Oh, well if dearest Papá commands it, it must be so,” the mer… snarks back? Cute _and_ witty? Be still his beating heart!

“Darling, won’t you escort me home? I really do need to get back, and, ah, not exactly sure where we are.” The cavern, though there are light slits, doesn’t appear to have a door, either. He frowns. “Or where the door is. Did we drop in from the ceiling? Gasp! Did we rappel in like a super spy? _Are we super spies?_ ”

“No, we’re—I, at least, am not a super spy. If I were, I’d have to have super spy tools, right?” The mer seems to relax into their banter, leaning forward and resting his head on his hand. “How do I know you’re not a super spy, here to spy on _me_ , hm?” Deadpool narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“I don’t know, you have an awful lot of shiny things draped about for none of them to be super spy tools. Sure this isn’t a grappling gun?” He reaches out and grasps at one of the mer’s decorative beads, inspecting it as if he’s expecting it to explode into motion.

“Well, I wouldn’t be a very good spy if I told you, now would I?” His teeth are now on full display as he breaks into a grin.

“Ah, caught in my own trap!” Deadpool brings his hand back to his heart as if wounded. “You _must_ be a super spy then. One that definitely knows everything about me, including,” he drags it out, “where my ship is.” Bringin’ it back.

“I don’t know, my Auntie always told me not to go anywhere with strange men,” he responds playfully. “Are you going to offer me candy, too?”

“Ah, tragedy, but Auntie knows best.” A beleaguered sigh rushes out before Deadpool bounces back, as he always does. “Hey, howya doin’, the name’s” _Deadpool_ “Wade.” _Shit._

The beautiful mer-shark stiffens as Deadpool—Wade now, he guesses—extends his hand, his eyes wary again, but reaches out to meet it after a heartbeat. “…Peter.”

The mer—Peter—is clearly not expecting it when Deadpool uses their joined hands to pull him out of the water slightly and against his side, swinging his arm around Peter’s shoulders and startling a laugh that rings through the cave like wind chimes. “ _Perfect_ , now we aren’t strangers. We know each other’s names, you saved me from probable death, we’re basically best friends now, it’s the law.” A regal nod is sent Peter’s way. He returns it, confused but entertained enough. “Now how do we get out of here?”

Embarrassed, Peter-the-mer pulls up his shoulders slightly. “Right, so, if I’m bringing you back there—they really weren’t the reason you’re hurt?” He’s still worried, that’s so sweet. Deadpool somehow manages to convey his eyeroll sans eye contact. “R-right. But I absolutely can’t be seen, so we’ll have to be underwater for a ways when we get close, will that be alright?” Peter grimaces. “It’s already… a lot that you’ve seen me.”

He mulls it over like he has a choice, and gives a thumbs up. “No problem, new bestie. You wanna know how long I can hold my breath?” His eyebrows waggle suggestively, and Peter holds back a chuckle.

“More like if you’re ready to go for a ride,” he returns, his lips curling too-innocently, “bestie.”

\--

Tragically, the ride Peter was talking about was a piggyback ride. It wouldn’t have been a tragedy in any other circumstance, of course. Getting to meet a mer, being on good enough terms that they didn’t immediately devolve into blows, and having a genuine need for transport can’t be a _that_ usual a circumstance, and it really does feel like flying when Peter leaps out of the waters for Deadpool to take his breaths. Do those make Peter a flying fish? Are there flying sharks?

And it does give him a chance to feel him up surreptitiously, by which he means not subtly at all. The first time he grabs at where-Peter’s-ass-would-be—and let him be the first to say, _nice_ —Peter almost drops him, and shouted something Deadpool couldn’t make out through the rushing of the salt water around them. Boy, could that boy _move_ when he put his mind to it, and that with two hundred pounds of not-particularly-aerodynamic Deadpool on him.

He always did have a thing for athleticism.

When they get close enough to see the _Happy Adventure_ as a speck on the horizon, and _man_ is Deadpool happy to see it, Peter tells him to take a deep breath before heading under the surface and shooting off like a cannonball. He can hardly keep his eyes open, and that’s _with_ his healing factor fixing his mask rubbing right up against his corneas. Or scleras. He doesn’t know, he’s not an eyeologist.

They’re next to the ship, right underneath the bow where they can’t be seen from anywhere on deck, when they surface next. Deadpool takes a deep breath, glad he didn’t bother to lower his mask before the swim. He’s been waterboarded before, not in a particular rush to inadvertently inflict that upon himself. He’s a delicate flower, you know.

“You all right?” Peter asks softly. Right, he doesn’t want to be noticed. He can do that, he knows how to be quiet.

“O-M-G are we sneaking in after curfew?”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” A brief pause. “I saw a couple of people on deck looking out, maybe for you, so I can’t climb you up,” he continues, guilt tinging his comment. Deadpool didn’t even know that was an option. Damn. “Do… do you need a way up, or…?”

He considers it, and he’s tempted, if only to see what this beautiful mer would do. Climb anyway? Clean up one of the cords still hanging into the waves? Just bodily chuck him up to deck?

“Nah, I’ll be fine. I know how to tread water.” Peter looks flatly at him as his baby leg paddles furiously. “Seriously, I’ll be fine. If I can get over to starboard there’s emergency handles from—well, it doesn’t matter. There’s handles, and then one of the others can get me up.” Peter nods hesitantly, pulling him along the side of the ship to the indicated location. Deadpool reaches out to grip a handle, copper and gleaming from when he’d polished anything remotely shiny, just above the waves. Peter is just turning to go when, “Will I see you again?”

Visibly torn, Peter replies,“…Maybe. Promise you won’t let them hurt you?”

He scoffs, “As if they could. Will you be back if _I_ hurt me?”

“You would hurt yourself to get me here?” His displeasure with the idea is clear.

“Oh, absolutely. How else would we be able to continue our illicit romance? Me, on kind-of land, you in the depths of the sea,” he sighs, “star-crossed lovers, only able to fulfill their love by hurting themselves physically as badly as their terrible circumstance has hurt them emotionally, how romantic~!”

Peter flushes a deep red at that, covering his face with his hand. It takes a moment for him to get back under control. “You shouldn’t hurt yourself for me.”

“No promises, sweetcheeks!” His grin is starting to hurt his face. “Now remember, don’t be late for our next date, mmkay? I’ll try to be conscious next time,” he shoots a wink Peter’s way. “Unless, of course, you could stay the night…?”

“No, no I can’t do that,” he sighs. “But I won’t say that you _won’t_ see me again. And…” He darts back in to Deadpool, his powerful tail pushing his upper body up out of the water some so he’s level with Deadpool’s face, only inches away, close enough they share each other’s breath. Peter bites his lip and almost, almost pierces the skin. _His blood_.

He closes those last few inches to press his lips at the corner of Deadpool’s scarred mouth, pulling away and out of arm’s reach before he can pull Peter closer, deeper. “Stay safe, Wade. ‘Till next time.”

There’s barely a ripple when Peter allows himself to drop down, his shadow disappearing quickly in the dim light of evening. Deadpool touches where Peter planted a wet one (very, very wet, what with all the water) on him, his other hand gripping the handle tightly.

Shit, he can’t kill him.

Goal 1: get back to the _Happy Adventure_ and his bestest friends in the whole world  
Goal 2: get this ~~really pretty~~ creature back to the ship with him  
 ~~Goal 3: trap it to harvest his blood for the world’s most morbid bath bomb~~

What the fuck is he going to do now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Wade. Nobody can resist Peter Parker, twink extraordinaire. _Nobody_.
> 
> Can y'all tell I know nothing about boats / ships / the high seas? Bc I don't.


	4. The Squid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Changed plans aren't necessarily better ones, and Deadpool isn't much of a planner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schedule? I don't know her.
> 
> For realsies though, my apologies for the long gap, I am just bad about sticking to a schedule.

The sun is just above the horizon; golden rays skip atop the waves to refract against the innumerable jewels and precious metals dangling off the side of _The Happy Adventure_. The shimmering of the precious items sends a rainbow of color every which way. The sky is a clear azure, the darkness of a night sky lingering along the horizon as a few puffy clouds meander across the sky as they, too, slowly wake. The salty air slowly warms from the lingering chill of night, the only sound the soft slapping of waves against the hull and the ringing of sleepy silence, the kind only heard when you are so far from civilization that the quiet itself seems deafening.

“ _CANNONBALL!_ ”

Suddenly, the silence no longer seems loud.

Deadpool shatters the idyll with a holler, leaping off the side of the ship and landing in the sea. He pouts when he surfaces and nobody’s around to see his magnificent splash. It’s gotta be at least an 8/10. He shrugs and shifts to a leisurely backstroke. Not as big a splash as a belly flop might’ve gotten him, but fun fact: surface tension is solid as _fuck_. He tried that once and only, like, four or five times since. It makes sense why people _without_ his healing factor aren’t a huge fan of cannonballs, especially given the hazards of his profession.

Huh, he probably shouldn’t’ve shouted that, actually. Probably freaked Dopinder right out, at least, assuming he’s awake. Whatever, he needs to get a little chill, and when _Deadpool_ is saying that, hooboy. At least it’ll be harder for him to kidnap his not-girlfriend again, anchored out here in the middle of the sea. It’ll be a nice chunk of time for her. Maybe she’ll actually follow through and change her name this time, he muses.

Blind Al’s been up for a bit now; he’s not quite sure when she sleeps, to be honest, but hey, she takes the shit he packs up and makes it mostly palatable. Domino, as always, will be up precisely when she needs to be.

Deadpool’s leg had grown back within about a day. He was torn between tearing it off again because it _worked goddammit_ and emphatically _not_ doing that again. He lost his dramatic coat, after all, and it is for that reason only and not at all because that mer seemed so torn up about his injury. Nope.

Now that he knew around what time Petey-pie was likely to be about, it was child’s play to get him to visit. With that knowledge, he was bleeding himself a lot less, too, only an hour or two out of the day. He doesn’t come every time (and if Wade comes _several_ times after each visit, there’s no one to snitch but the reader), but every few days, yes.

And slowly, Peter has started to open up.

He tells him how Wade isn’t the first person he’s saved, how he does his best to be good, to help people, both mers that shun sharks and humans that are ignorant of mers and their varied cultures, thinking of mers only as monsters, and Deadpool hears him rage against injustice.

He tells him how he’s sure he’s left some humans to die accidentally, missing some injury or another through ignorance, how he mourns for them every day, and resolves to try harder the next; Deadpool hears that he is resolute and kind and so, so much better than he is.

He tells him how he’d thought Wade handsome from a distance and wasn’t disappointed, how he likes the pretty red-and-white pattern on his skin as he tentatively caresses Wade’s dappled jaw with a blush, and Deadpool feels his (probably literally) damned soul leave his body.

Deadpool can’t resist pulling Peter from the water, one-armed, for a deep, messy kiss. Based on the enthusiastic reciprocation, neither of them really want him to.

He tells him that he wasn’t always as athletic as he is, though he’s very handwavy about the how, and Deadpool knows that there is magic under the sea, as there is on land; it reaffirms his cure is below the waves, whether it be the blood of a mer or some other method humans on land are unaware of.

It also tells him that Peter is _very_ athletic, even for a mer. There’s no way someone with that much definition _isn’t_ fit as hell after all, so he had an inkling, but having an inkling and _knowing_ are two entirely different things.

For the first time, he curses his lack of research in advance. Deadpool is usually very good about that sort of thing; he has a reputation to uphold, after—HAH, kidding, but he is damned good at his job, less reputation and more needing-to-be-successful-due-to-unresolved-trauma. Talk about a bonerkiller.

In any case, even if he had the wherewithal to prepare for this personal mission properly, there aren’t a ton of sources about mers, and even if there _were_ , it’s unlikely his research would have lead him down a path of _how do a human and a mer have hot, steamy sex_ or _mating habits of sharks_ or _do mers mate like their fishy halves or their super-mega-hot twink halves._

Finally, _finally,_ Peter tells him about more domestic shit, about his job coiling (what the hell is that?) and sculpting, about his awful boss who screams at him every day, and Deadpool has a confirmation that there are other mers around, at least some of whom are a tad more worthy of a good un-aliving than Petey-pie over here.

On that topic, he pushes, and hears about the villains down under, those that prey on the boring punch-clock mers Peter so often defends.

They’re perfect.

Wade doesn’t give a fuck about the background characters, of course, but Peter does, and he’s caring an awful lot about what Peter thinks of _him_ lately, too. He almost feels guilty about manipulating the mer-hero like this, but it’s just _so_ easy. It’s Peter’s own fault, really. What the hell gave him the idea that trusting trash like him, a perfect stranger, was a good idea? Didn’t his Aunt teach him stranger danger?

Dammit, no, he doesn’t almost feel guilty, he _does_ feel guilty. On the other hand, if this is the only way to get more information on the less-savory side of merpeople, who is he to turn up his nose? Sure, he’s using Peter, but that doesn’t mean his laughs at Peter’s dumbass jokes are less real, that he enjoys his company any less.

Hell, he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop on the mer’s end of things, most people around him last _way_ less time before deciding he’s too much, or too scary, or _you shouldn’t kill people, Deadpool_ , nag nag nag. Besides, what’s a little casual manipulation between friends?

…Fuck, he thinks his scars are _pretty_. Deadpool is so gone, he groans to himself. He dips his head under the freezing water to clear his mind. Okeedokie, artichokie.

This isn’t the first time he’s popped out, cheerio-like, for a turn about the ship when Petey-pie isn’t there. He swims over to the handles on the side, still shiny and alluring, to steady himself for that next step. He’s whistling a jaunty tune when he reaches over with one hand and unhooks a clasp, drawing Bea over his shoulder and down his calf in a long swipe, straight to the bone. The salt water stings like a motherfucker. Bea slides back into place and he slides the clasp back over her.

He’s taking no chances with his babies. They’re getting an awful lot of polishing, with all the fun splashing about he’s doing lately, almost— _almost—_ more than usual.

His legs swing around with vigor, doing Deadpool’s best impression of a jig. Not that he knows what a jig is, specifically, but it’s the principle of the matter. Besides, who’s gonna tell him what dance he’s doing? The dance police?

An image of British navy sailors brandishing billy clubs over the side of their ship at Wade, angrily showing him the proper steps for maybe-a-jig-who-knows bubbles up and he lets out a giggle. Who says that self-mutilation for the purpose of hunting sentient beings can’t be fun?

He spins in a lazy circle, keeping an eye out for possible mers. A normal, not-Peter, fully-shark shark swims up to nibble on him, but a quick game of stabby-stabby-cut-cut soon puts that to rest.

The sun is almost entirely up and Deadpool is about to give today up as a wash when he feels that indescribable weight of observation. He ducks down underwater and squints, and he _thinks_ he _might_ see a mer-something in the distance swimming towards him. To get a better look at the growing shape, he swims a little farther out, but it halts some distance away, bobbing gently in the current.

In preparation, his hands come up to roll his mask up to his nose. For what, exactly, he’s not sure, but being waterboarded to death is not something that endears him to having wet cloth impeding his breath. Air may not be necessary for him anymore, but a cycle of dying and resurrection is never fun, _especially_ when it’s so reminiscent of fucking Francis. Dammit, he wishes he were still alive so Wade could kill him again, and again, and then once more for good measure for doing this to him. Dick.

The shape in the distance has begun moving again, circling Deadpool at a distance.

This isn’t the first time he’s popped out as a living lure, but it _is_ the first time he thinks he might actually see something more promising than sharks and the odd jellyfish, whose deaths are just so wasteful. Shark tastes way too strongly of ammonia for him to be comfy, and humans can’t even eat most jellyfish, probably. Not that he’s tried and been disappointed both by the taste and the cardiac arrest that followed, nope.

Well, technically, humans can eat whatever they want if they’re willing to deal with the consequences. Said consequences are just very not fun on an enclosed sloop with all your closest friends going through the same things and may or may not involve a light dusting of death. Results may vary.

Deadpool is zig-zagging casually towards the shape. It doesn’t look to be moving away, but it isn’t getting closer, either. He frowns.

“Hey, Cap!” Wade wiggles with joy at the term and turns back to the ship to see Domino leaning over the side. She grimaces. “Ugh, god, I am _always_ caught off guard by your face. Al’s making breakfast, be back up soon or we’re gonna eat it all.”

“…It’s the shark stew again, isn’t it.”

“Sure is.”

“…You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“I live to serve,” she smirks, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Maybe if you hurry, you’ll get some of the good stuff.”

Deadpool pouts. “Oh, go sucker Dopinder out of his rations or something.”

“You got it, bossman,” she says with a salute. Is she being sarcastic? She’s probably being sarcastic. Just for safe measure, he flips her off and dips down to squint at the mysterious shape, the ocean waters cool against his face. He hates it.

Despite how much he detests water, Deadpool is nothing if not practical. Well, he’s dramatic as all fuck. After that, at least, he’s a practical man. You can hardly be a pirate if you can’t swim, regardless of what that stretchy dumbass in a straw hat says, but doesn’t mean he leaves his floaties behind, yaknow?

So he dips his head underwater to watch the shape in the distance as he swims cautiously in its direction. The water is a mer’s domain, but he is kind of a badass, so it balances out, probably. What’s peculiar here is that the shape doesn’t seem to be moving, yet it’s staying just as far from him as when he left the ship. And is it just him, or is the sky somewhat darker?

A glance back shows him he’s swum quite a ways from the _Adventure_. He frowns and considers going back, hesitating, when he sees a _much larger shadow_ growing between him and his sloop. He treads water trepidatiously as the water itself seems to grow, something underneath growing larger, the rippling surface bowing up, up, up until it _breaks_ with a thunderous splash that falls just short of Deadpool.

A fucking _colossal squid_ is between him and his ship. What the _shit_?

It seems to be staring into his soul, its eye as big as his head, and slowly meanders in his direction. A long arm, beige and spackled red, pokes out of the water near him curiously, but he quickly begins to backpedal. Wade has read enough fantasy to know where this is going. “Oh, no no no, I’m sure you’re great and all, but I ain’t a fisherman’s wife. Don’t you have an Admiral to get home to, mon calamari?” Another surfaces and reaches towards his bared face with its hooked suckers.

“Don’t get me wrong, into it, but you’re in the wrong genre here!” He dodges yet another arm, but he can’t seem to maneuver any closer to his ship. At least he’s mostly healed up at this point, so it’s unlikely anyone else will be showing up anytime soon.

He just jinxed himself, didn’t he.

Just as that thought crosses his mind, Wade feels something wrap around his ankle. He has less than a moment to take a breath before he’s forcefully pulled under, the limb constraining his foot not letting up as he kicks at it instinctively. Yet another appendage, a full-on tentacle he thinks, wraps around his chest and _squeezes_ , hooking into his nice new jacket and forcing what little air he’d managed from his lungs, and suddenly he’s back with fucking _Francis_ , strapped down and asphyxiating and he’s _taunting_ —

Nope. He’s in a bit of a pickle, but this is _nothing_ compared to that. A quick release and swipe of Bea slices right through the arms trapping him all-too-easily and he resists the urge to take a breath as he swims furiously towards the light above him, sword in hand.

The light that doesn’t seem to be getting closer. He narrows his eyes. Once is random, but Deadpool doesn’t believe in coincidence. Something’s not right. He sees the squid some distance away, curling around its lost limbs, since detached and floating slowly downwards, leaking blue. With how fast he’s been swimming, they should be far below him. How far down was he pulled?

His ears pop, and against all his instincts, he stops swimming.

He drifts upward. Deadpool, already a heavy guy, wearing pounds and pounds of steel and badass clothing, with little-to-no air in his lungs, is floating upward. His floaties are great, but they aren’t nearly strong enough for this.

Deadpool turns and swims down.

Now that he’s actually paying attention, he can tell the pressure of the water is letting up, even as the surface appears to draw away from him. Motion to his left catches his eye, and he sees Peter swimming towards him, his eyes dilated and furious, and shit that’s hot but _not the time, Deadpool_.

“ _How could you, Wade?!_ ” Peter shrieks.

Wade recoils. Had he done something? Other than the whole almost-exsanguination thing, but Peter didn’t know about that. He hasn’t murdered a single person for weeks!

He has, however, partially dismembered a colossal squid, one that seems none-too happy with it, if the sudden return of swiping arms is any indication.

He tries to catch Peter’s eyes and motion downwards, where he _thinks_ the surface is at this point, gesturing a talking mouth as he continues to kick downwards, dodging what he can and swiping at what he can’t, but Peter doesn’t slow. He doesn’t deviate from his course at all, just bares his saw-like teeth and _screams_ and for just a heartbeat Deadpool understands why so many people think mers are beasts.

Then he feels terrible. Racist Deadpool.

Still shooting for the surface, he just keeps swimming, just keeps swimming, hoping that Peter will stop short and yell at him exactly what he did wrong, hopefully at the surface. This is, in hindsight, a terrible plan; despite Peter’s lithe build, he can and will overpower Wade if he wants to, and he certainly seems to want to right now. Unfortunately, Wade can feel black spots start to form along the edges of his vision and he knows he doesn’t have long before he asphyxiates. There’s just no _time_.

He’s dealt with underwater resurrection before, that time near Bermuda before Dopinder picked him up. That first breath after resurrection is nigh impossible to control, and Wade knows all too well how much it sucks to deal with seawater in your lungs. If Wade can just get to the surface, he’ll finally be able to _think_ again.

Peter speeds those last few feet towards him, showing no comprehension of Wade or his gestures, and at the last moment Wade goes to dodge.

Then a hooked tentacle grabs him. He brings up an arm in Peter’s direction, hoping for _something_ as he stabs into the squid, spewing a dark cloud below—above?—him but not letting go.

Teeth dig deep into Deadpool’s pitted flesh. Dizzy and disoriented and getting worse, it takes far too long for him to comprehend that _Peter just bit him_. His forearm splinters under the force of those jaws, scarlet leaking into the water as his jaws tear at his limb, elbow to wrist. Peter’s usually golden gaze is now almost solid black, wide and furious and vicious.

His lungs are empty, his arm shredded by someone he was getting _pretty fond of, dammit_ , but you know, he’s kinda glad the other shoe’s dropped. He liked his _scars_ , for Pete’s sake, better to be mildly feral than be a politician or something.

Bea is still in his hand and he cuts through the tentacle holding him, leaving the squid with _something fewer than ten_ and slashes between Peter and his bodies, aiming for a light maiming rather than death or dismemberment. It’d be nice to be able to talk this out, but his skin is getting _too tight_ and he needs to get to air _somehow_ _right fucking now he will not go through this again_.

The iron grip of his jaw releases, Peter’s crimson blood mixing with Deadpool’s in a cloud and spreading between them as a gash opens up, and Deadpool takes the opportunity to pull himself away from both of the creatures inexplicably attacking him and shoots once more towards the probably-surface. The pressure around him lessens despite the darkness of the deep sea growing until, with no warning at all, a hand meets _nothing_ rather than yet more water.

He bursts from the sea in a frenzy, gasping for air, the world finally righting itself. With the sweetness of his first full breath in a hot minute, Deadpool is almost giddy, barking out a laugh. He glances down to see the damage to his arm. Not too bad. Shards of bone are poking out of what skin remains, splintered into uselessness, the deeper marks already filling in, but…

Deadpool glances underwater briefly and sees the squid writhing and Peter circling below him, nervous now, holding his hand to the gash Deadpool gave him and possibly crying and _fuck_ now he feels bad. Bea went pretty deep, and Peter is bleeding everywhere.

He looks back at his arm, the skin reforming and an ugly red-and-white pattern growing to cover it in pain, as usual.

Peter is bleeding everywhere, but Deadpool isn’t healing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was meant to encompass this whole fight, but it was getting a little long and it's been a While since I've updated so instead of a nice complete fight, you get a cliffhanger. Yay?


	5. The Illusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confusion is had, and things are clarified. Then they aren't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of fight scene! The gap was less than 2mo this time!

Deadpool is healing, but he isn’t _healing_. His scars have covered the puncture wounds on his forearm already, assuming their normal shifting and the prickling burn that comes with his curse.

He thinks quickly. He’s still cut off from his ship—is it farther than it was a moment ago? And is that a fucking British naval ship attacking it?!—and has a colossal squid and Peter, both injured, attacking him for what appears to be no goddamn reason. Peter’s blood should, by all rights, be curing him, at least partially; maybe there’s a required concentration? Maybe it isn’t mer blood in general but a specific breed or person, or maybe that witch was swindled and it wasn’t actually mer blood at all, but something else, or, or, or—

Peter and the squid both look to be gearing up for another go, their circles tightening, Peter’s face pained. His arm is cradled against his chest, still bleeding profusely from the gash across his shoulder. The gash he’d made. _Fuck_.

Before Deadpool can second-guess his dumb ass, he takes one last deep breath and dives back down.

Thankfully, it looks like up and down don’t flip back into topsy-turvy land, at least for now. Pressure and light levels seem normal as he swims back towards Peter, who seems to be gearing up for another run, nervous though he is, circling ever-tighter below, sharp teeth bared in fury.

The squid seems to be content to circle, nursing its wounds, as Deadpool and Peter clash, one doing their best to tear and rend, the other just trying to get his arms around the mer, trying to pull him up to the surface so he can figure out what the hell is going on.

His grip slips on Peter’s rough-smooth skin, strangely less defined than usual, his arms held close, wound still streaming freely into the water. Huh, he wonders how clotting works. Do mers just all have anemia? Is there some other clotting mechanism?

Peter bites again and this time Deadpool lets him, planning to use those powerful jaws to yank him up with him, but—he winces as his bone cracks again—something’s off. Now that his head is on a little straighter (for how long, who knows), he can tell. Peter’s jaw isn’t this wide. _Nobody’s_ jaw is this wide.

Desperately hoping he isn’t wrong about this, he sends a punch that _should_ miss, _should_ skim against the top of Peter’s loose flowing hair.

It doesn’t.

Instead, he makes full-on contact with the nose of a not-at-all-attractive not-mer _shark_ that proceeds to instinctively let go at the shock. He doesn’t know what kind of shark it is, and it _really_ doesn’t matter when it means it’s not Peter.

Oh thank fuck _he didn’t stab Peter_. If he weren’t underwater, he’d laugh gleefully. He certainly does it internally.

He _also_ brandishes Bea with gusto and goes to town on the shark until it’s floating away in pieces.

Okay, he thinks. Peter told him about some of his more common assailants, and this seems right up that illusionist’s alley, Mister-something. Mister Nero. Mysterious Hoe. Mephistopheles. Not particularly important. What _is_ important is that, if he recalls correctly, that means he really, _really_ can’t trust his vision. Or his hearing, really. That’s… fun.

At that thought, kicking back to the surface, the “squid” decides now is a lovely time to attack from all sides at once, one “tentacle” per limb. Now that he knows what he’s looking for, it’s clear it’s rope, not tentacles; it’s barbs, not spines. Thank goodness; that would’ve been a terrible time, all around.

This time, he cuts all but one off before they can even make contact, leaving one of those attempting to grip his leg to latch on; he notices bits of his skin tearing where the “tentacle” tightens almost absentmindedly. He’s very glad he remembered to put on his expendable pants before leaping into the water to lure something that would try (and fail!) to eat him.

This time, he lets it drag him down for a long moment as he exchanges Bea for something a bit smaller. When he’s ready, he reaches down with his free hand and grips between where the tentacle’s “hooks” are, still gets stabbed because it _isn’t_ a tentacle thank you very much, and _yanks_.

There’s a lot you can learn from yanking a rope, if you pay attention. You can figure out how strong it is, how flexible, what it’s made of, how far away it’s supported.

What direction it’s being supported from.

That last one is the important bit, right now, and Deadpool doesn’t waste a minute, throwing the knife in his hand directly parallel to where he feels the still-taut cord. He feels more than hears the shout of surprise, the rope going loose mere seconds after he’d thrown. Good sign, that. He’s getting the hang of this whole not-trusting-your-senses thing.

Speaking of, there’s a pressure wave coming up from beneath him, near where he’d thrown—dammit he is never getting that knife back, is he? But he can _feel_ something or more likely some _one_ coming up underneath him. His leg with the rope still firmly attached lashes out, trying to whip it forwards, but the water slows it much more than Deadpool expects. The pressure wave crests when he’s tackled by someone he _still_ can’t see straight back up and through the surface for a moment like a majestic land-dolphin arcing through the sky.

His face breaks first, a deep breath and a look at the sky. Not a cloud in sight. There’s a comforting pillow of cannonfire in the air. He’s sure Domino will keep the others safe. The wind against his bare chin is cool and peaceful. Mmm.

Then they’re back underwater, bubbles rushing by and vaguely defining the figure who’d tackled him and is even now doing their utmost to restrain him. Their arms and then an added weighted net do their utmost to keep his delightfully beefy arms close to his chest. Like a self-hug and a real hug, all in one! He does need to work on self-love, it’s true.

In the meantime, though, his torn-up left arm is tied up right next to another of his many, many sheathed knifes, which he then proceeds to draw and stab his invisible, huggy opponent with. Fortunately, his proprioception is propri-on-point, and he feels his dagger slice cleanly through flesh, only a little more difficult than a human normally would be. The warmth of life-blood spreads through the water alongside the warmth of satisfaction as a vibration (a shout?) echoes against him.

Though usually the warmth of satisfaction is in the gut area, not centered around his arm. Weird.

…

_His fucking arm is healing!_

Right, that wasn’t Peter earlier, Mister Mew’s the first mer he’s actually bloodied. Deadpool bares his teeth, eagerness pooling in his gut. He _cannot_ let this one go, not when it’s someone who’s attacked him, who even Peter says is a bad guy, whose nose crinkles in the cutest way like he’s smelling something terrible while talking about Mario.

He takes the opportunity while the mer’s grip on his loosens to loop the cord _still_ attached to his leg around their tail, pinning it in place with his other foot and keeping them attached as he viciously headbutts the other, feeling the crunch of a nose and spots of relief open up on his forehead, even through his mask.

With the arms gripping him gone, Deadpool shakes off the net and grabs at them instead, finally seeing a metallic suit flickering into view. He attempts to quip about how Mister Music’s stuck with him now, but he just bubbles out half his air supply and a vague hum. Of course, that’s when he feels another pressure wave coming, probably another shark or something.

This time, though, he has its master.

A quick spin of the disoriented mer brings their back to his chest between him and the direction of whatever next hell is approaching. Wade’s lovely knife comes up to kiss the mer’s admittedly armored neck, but he’s cut through their armor before.

He tries to shout at them to stop whatever it is, ineffectual as his efforts at communication were last time. He can’t even use sign language, what with his arms tied up in his hug of death.

It wouldn’t matter anyway, as instead of recoiling, or smirking about his control, or whatever megalomaniacal thing evil illusion mers probably do, the figure pushes forward into his knife, only to recoil _violently_ when the faintest hint of red starts to seep into the water, nearly headbutting Wade right back, the pressure growing ever stronger despite the hold he has on the guy. Oh, he sees how it is.

Then the wave of pressure passes them by entirely, and Deadpool’s vision seems to _glitch_. His arms loosen, drawing the blade away, and turns the mer around to face him.

“Peter?” he mouths fruitlessly.

Maybe-Peter’s face darken with rage and Wade tenses up in case of attack, not immune to his reflexes after someone with Peter’s likeness had attacked him more than once so recently.

Instead of leaping in for a bite, though, the mer maneuvers his hands to Wade’s elbows, pushing them up towards the surface, and Wade lets him.

They break through once more with a gasp of breath on Wade’s side, but it would be impossible for him to miss Peter’s low growl. “ _Mysterio_.” Ooh, that growl _does things_ to him.

Right, _that_ was the guy’s name. Mysterio. Got it.

Wade keeps his hands on Peter, keeping contact; he does _not_ want to lose it and accidentally attack him again, and this way he knows at _least_ that it’s the same person for now. Whether it’s Peter or not… he’ll deal with that shit later. At least this figure doesn’t seem to be actively attacking him right now, which, improvement! He’ll take it.

Wait, shit, he stabbed this one too. And headbutted them. And threatened to slit their throat. Oh well, you know what they say, in for a knife, in for life.

Nobody says that. It’s fine. Probably-Peter is probably-fine.

Treading water, Wade turns to see what the hell that last wave was, and sees _The Happy Adventure_ just a little ways off slowly turning back towards them, Domino at the helm as usual. “You are _so cool_!” he calls out, waving his unbroken arm boisterously. The skin on his other still feels _far_ too good to pull away as Peter still bleeds, he can feel the hairs— _actual hairs!_ —goose-pimpling in the chill, can feel the gentle motion of the ocean through them. God, he’d forgotten what that felt like.

That, of course, is when he spots a figure, lightly stabbed, tangled among the sharp cords hanging below the hull. One such cord is wrapped around its— _his_ , he knows who this is for sure now—torso, adding to the many small incisions already present as he yanks on it to free himself. His helmet, spherical and opaque where it remains, has cracked open at parts, filling with water until the man—Mysterio—punches into one of the newly formed gaps and yanks out a large shard of the shattered helm heedless of the large gash it opens up on his palm. The action lets loose the flood of liquid stored within, the villain gasping for breath as it clears to reveal his dark hair sticking to his face, his neatly-trimmed beard and strong brow.

Deadpool doesn’t recognize him at all, but as he turns to Peter to ask whether he does, he finds he doesn’t need to.

All color has drained from his already-pale face, his claw-tipped fingers gouging thoughtlessly into Wade’s forearm where they’re holding onto each other, his breath quick and shallow. Peter is terrified. Horrified. Really turned on is a possibility, but Wade does know how to read the room sometimes and sees the pinched look about him, just tightening his own grip in support. Not that he really can be _support_ to a mer while in open water, but seriously, the thought is what counts here.

And maybe he still feels a little teensy bit guilty for stabbing him.

When Deadpool looks back over at his ship, it’s barrelling past them again, this time with not one but several Mysterios, some crawling up the cords, some down, some just detangling themselves and swimming away. The ruckus also draws attention to the new pulsing cloud of sea creatures below and around the two of them. Deadpool kicks out automatically, and his foot through the head of a jellyfish only to contact its compatriot, though not before it stings him.

Well. Tries to sting him, maybe. Most of the suit is still intact. Actually, he can’t even be sure that _is_ a jellyfish, and not just some particularly soft driftwood or something. The villain of the piece is doing his own thing right now, he’s not even sure the cloud beneath him is real at all given the lack of movement he’s feeling, he has time.

He looks back at Peter, who he still hasn’t let go of, and is doubly grateful for their grip when he sees not Peter’s but Domino’s face staring back at him in disgust.

“I can’t believe you’re shacking up with something like _that_ ,” she bites out, her nails digging half-moons farther into his already bloody arms, the sky darkening behind her into the threatening blue-gray of an oncoming storm. “I knew you were depraved, out of control, but you’ve gone too far this time. You’re fucking a monster. Well,” she continues, a humorless smirk pulling her lips unnaturally away from her too-white teeth as she leans closer, “I suppose it makes sense. _A monster fucking a monster_.”

Deadpool stares at her for a moment, shocked.

Then he bursts into laughter. _Really?_ Fuck, Domino’s been through thick and thin and seen him do _way_ worse than loving a mer. He’d _literally married Death_ , for fucks’ sake, however temporary that was.

A ripple passes through where he is, followed by a rhythmic pattern of swimming. He manages to pry one hand free of Peter’s increasingly desperate grip to grasp at his fishing spear, check the connection, and chucks it in that general direction. Really, at this point, he’d just like Mysterio to go the fuck away so he can check Peter’s wounds. That he put there.

Seriously, talk about a roller coaster of guilt. Stabbed him, actually no you didn’t it’s someone else, nope now you’ve probably-definitely stabbed him again. Fuck.

He reels the spear back in one-handed, feeling for any other indications of movement and getting a feeling of pressure below him, but different than before; Mysterio is swimming away, he thinks. Good fucking riddance.

Domino-slash-Peter is still clinging to his other hand, talking about how disgusted and disappointed she is even as they’re pulling him in for a desperate hug. He wraps his arms around the distressed figure even as it spews vitriol and is just grateful that he has no idea who Wade is. There’s an awful lot worse he could’ve done with personal knowledge.

Speaking of, what the fuck is he showing Peter that _this_ is his reaction? Wade knows he’s fought the man before, but Peter had described him as more of a nuisance, popping up out of nowhere during work, making some trouble and property damage, manipulating the people around him into doing most of his work in theft or vandalism. The manipulation is the main reason Wade was so down to kill the guy, but this…

Peter—and he can see Peter’s face now, thank goodness—is shaking against him, his claws digging into Wade’s shoulderblades between his weapons harnesses.

It’s another moment and a careful sniff before Peter relaxes his grip, brushing his hands over the already-closing punctures in Wade’s back and down to his arms. Peter still doesn’t let go.

“…You okay there, Petey-pie?”

“I think—I think he’s gone. Pretty injured, too, he… shouldn’t be a problem for you for a while.” His face screws up, guilt and pain warring within him. “ _Ever_ , if I can help it.”

Wade nods, checking below them to see the cloud now more of a vague group of far fewer creatures nowhere near his feet and fleeing as he watches. He’d totally kicked driftwood, then. As Peter guides them back towards his ship, Wade tries to casually direct them over to where Mysterio had been caught up, but he’s not a particularly _subtle_ person most of the time, and clearly shows his intent enough that Peter hauls him over where he wants. He may not be missing a leg this time (though he takes a moment to finally remove that barbed rope from his calf), but Peter is still much, _much_ faster than he is in the water. Shocker, the mer is faster in water.

They get near the ship to the holler of Dopinder over the side and Wade winces even as he surreptitiously removes a glove, tucking it into a pouch, and grips a bloodied shard of what he thinks actually might have been his window at one point. “Yep, we— _I’m_ fine, Dopinder! Hope you didn’t get into too much trouble while I was gone!”

“We ran over the man attacking you!” Ah, and Domino’s back from below deck.

“Yep, good job, D, keep up the good work!”

He faintly hears Dopinder freaking out over the praise as he does every time as he rubs his fingers, wet with Mysterio’s blood, and sees nothing change. Hesitant, he dips his fingers down to clean them. Does he really want to know this?

The rough, scarred tips of Wade’s fingers gently press Peter’s no longer bleeding but still fairly open wound, where the skin of just the very tips clears up. “Why…”

“Wade, are you okay?”

“Why couldn’t it have been him, Peter?” Wade isn’t crying, he doesn’t remember the last time he did, thinks perhaps the curse scarred shut his tear ducts, but it certainly feels like the time for a good cry at the moment. “It doesn’t…” he trails off, swiping his hand across the bloody glass again, and again more aggressively until he’s unsure whether it’s Mysterio’s or his own blood decorating his palm. “Why won’t _his_ blood work?!”

“His… blood?”

Eyes wide and feverish below the top of his mask, Wade turns back to the mer supporting him still and brandishes his red-stained hand. “ _It’s not healing, Peter!_ This whole fight—fuck, you got injured for _nothing!_ ”

Peter stills other than the undulation of his tail keeping them both afloat. “Did… did you plan this, Wade?”

“How else am I going to find someone who _isn’t you_?”

Peter violently flinches back, mouth forming words that don’t come.

“I… I _need_ it, but it can’t be you, _never_ you, Peter, you have to know I would never hurt you!” his eyes drift to the thin, raw patch of skin along his shoulder. “…On purpose.” His head falls to Peter’s injured shoulder thoughtlessly, pulling back immediately at a muffled _Ngk_. Fuck, he was out of control today, wasn’t he?

“Wade, what are you saying?” Peter chokes out, then looks at his face. Suddenly, the pain morphs to confusion. “…What happened to your lovely pattern? There’s a streak right here,” he traces along Wade’s forehead where it touched his injury, wiping away the blood and letting the scars overtake the healthy skin. “That’s better,” he smiles, watery.

“What you call my pattern… it isn’t my pattern. Or, rather, it is, kind of—I’m not explaining this well.” Wade heaves a sigh. This is where Peter leaves him and doesn’t return, he’s sure. “These are scars, baby boy. They hurt. They hurt a _lot_ , and they come with the whole healing thing,” he says, wiggling his fingers as if that’s explanation enough before sagging a little in Peter’s arms. “Oh, and I heal enough that I _literally can’t die_ , and I don’t—I don’t want them to hurt anymore, and I don’t understand why it has to be _you_. I can’t kill you, I can’t—can’t just drain you like a chicken, you’re _you_.”

He can’t seem to stop himself, now. “I was _trying_ to find someone, _anyone_ else, preferable someone shitty, like a—a murderer—heh, merderer—or a pedo or something, but his blood _didn’t work and I don’t know why_.” He’d be pulling his hair out if his curse had left any to pull. He does the motion anyway Peter’s grip still at his elbows.

“So… when we first met…” Peter bites out, eyes wide as things fall into place, his gills beginning to flutter, his breaths coming shorter. “All this time, you’ve just been, what, using me to find other mers to—to _harvest_ , is that it?”

Wade tries to grasp at his arm in turn, explain who the fuck knows what given Peter’s kind of right, but Peter makes a sudden six-foot jerk away look graceful. “I wasn’t using you to find other mers, I was—I’m in pain, Peter, _all the time_ , and I _can’t die_ so it’s just—forever, can’t you see that I will do almost _anything_ for it to just— _stop_?”

“No. No, I can’t—not—not again, I—"

A breathless laugh. “And I still can’t bring myself to hurt you! An eternity of agony, Peter, and I still choose you. Every fucking time. I wasn’t even going after anyone innocent, I know that’d kill you. You’re just—too fucking _good_. Mer blood is the cure, and I need _so fucking much_ , Peter, but I can’t… I could never.” A glance down. “…Not on purpose.”

A few breaths ground Peter, though his beautiful eyes are still dilated, his eyes pinched, his tinted skin paler than usual, Wade thinks. After a beat, Peter raises his chin defiantly. “No.”

He drops below the waves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, please let me know if anything was confusing ❤️


	6. The Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter makes some hasty rationalizations, asks a friend for advice, and promptly does the opposite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Peter chapter! Also added one to the # of chapters again. I swear it's not my fault! Characters just keep on bein dumb and introspective, whoops. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Water pounds against Peter’s eardrums as his tail pushes him faster, faster, _faster_ into the darker waters below _._ He can feel himself hyperhydrating, but doesn’t know how to stop it, stop himself.

Wade was lying this whole time.

He was lying every time he laughed at one of Peter’s dumb jokes, he was lying every time he nodded sympathetically. God, he opened up to—he never should have trusted another _human_. It feels like he’s peeled back his skin, opened up his ribcage and offered himself up, only for Wade to reach in and squeeze, uncaring of the damage.

But… he’d _said_ he was trying not to hurt anyone _good_ , and god, he’d smelled so _good_ just then. A shudder runs down his spine.

Wade was trying not to, but he was still _hunting mers_. Before he talked to Peter, he was probably going to kill him, too, bleed him like so much livestock.

Pain begets pain. Peter should never have trusted him, should have _known better_ after last time, he’s just like every human, trying to hunt and kill and tear families apart like… like _him_.

And wasn’t that a fucking tail to the head. All these years, he’d thought…

Peter had never regretted saving someone, before one. He’d managed to keep a low profile, get the humans out of the water before they woke, or at least managed to convince them they were hallucinating while he dove back down to retrieve the bodies of those he wasn’t fast enough or strong enough or smart enough to save.

Then he slipped with Quentin.

\--

Quentin Beck was _brilliant_ , so smart and inquisitive, and refused to believe Peter was a hallucination. Charming, in his own way. He’d been fired from a lucrative position recently and was looking to find his fortune on the seas. Peter didn’t know what he expected to find out here, but after he left, he came back, and came back, and came back. He visited for quite a while, leaning over the edge of his ship, his eyes trailing along the inside of Peter’s wrists, really _listening_ to him when he talked about everything—well, everything except his city—and opening up in turn.

At least, Peter had _thought_ he’d opened up in turn. In hindsight, it was clear that he was giving as little actual information as possible, while seeming to reciprocate Peter’s growing attachment, his growing vulnerability. Beck listened, and smiled, and never let on what he was preparing as Peter slowly showed him more and more of his soft underbelly.

Metaphorically. After his change, he didn’t really have one of those, compared to most mers.

If Quentin were a better person, maybe it would have ended with that, a gentle bond between a particularly heroic mer and a down-on-his-luck human.

Instead, it ended as it always seems to: blood and pain.

After a few months, the days between Quentin’s visit grew longer, until Peter looked up and realized a fortnight had passed without hearing from him. Peter assumed he’d found his fortune or at least a partner to work with and had settled back down on the mainland. It was a friendship he’d miss, but not for too long, nor altogether much. It was painful, but they lived on different worlds, after all, and he still needed to keep his city secret; it makes sense that it would end, eventually. He’d braced himself for it.

But then Quentin came back with a larger ship, and Peter approached, confused, as he beckoned him closer than ever before. Wary of the newness and unfamiliarity of the new vessel, Peter refused, instead backing away. Quentin’s face twisted in a rictus of fury, and Peter had just a moment to duck under the waves and their meager protection as he and his crew showered weighted nets and fishing spears around him, whether to kill, or to trap, or to harvest, he doesn’t know.

What he does know is that Quentin’s ship and his crew didn’t catch Peter; they caught Uncle Ben.

He twisted around and through the rain of spears and traps as best he could, panic coursing through his veins as he neared the edge of their range. Mers have always been faster than ships. He got complacent.

The attacks petered off, but there was one last spear whistling through the air, piercing the water with a splash Peter didn’t hear until it was there, too late. He felt a great _push_ and the scent of iron exploded into the water. His eyes met his Uncle’s where he swayed, inches from Peter, a barbed metal spearhead emerging from his hip where skin met scales. A moment passed, both in shock, before Ben let out a shriek of agony, the spear tugging him inexorably towards Quentin.

Peter tried, he _tried_ to get Ben off the spear, this was _his fault_ , he never should have let him—

“I love you, Peter, I—I love you and May so much, I’ll— _god_ I’ll miss you, please be safe, _I_ —!” and Ben was pulled by his wound from the sea.

There was so much blood. So, so much. Too much.

Peter still doesn’t know if the spear would have hit him had Ben not intervened, and he doesn’t consider it often. It hurts more that way.

The crewmen reeled his Uncle in, unconscious from the pain or maybe… maybe dead, and set off towards land as fast as the ship could go. It was nothing for Peter to keep up, to loop around looking for ways to slow it down, to try to… to retrieve Ben’s body, at _least_ , so he could be properly sent off.

Three days passed, and Peter neither are nor slept, just followed the ship, slowly redirecting it when he could, breaking off its keel during a change in shift when that didn’t work. They just started rowing.

On the third night, Peter could see the sea floor rising and went to a weak point in the hull he’d spotted the very first day. He’d trailed his claws along a seam in the wooden boards of the hull that he could so easily dig into, splinter into so much flotsam. He could sink this ship and all the people in it, and he would have his Uncle’s body.

He thought about it for a long time.

But he would also have the deaths of so many people on his hands, people who don’t understand what they’re doing, who think that mers are unthinking beasts. He can’t risk even more people knowing that isn’t true, following their path back to his city, slaughtering them all. His hands curled up against the ship, his claws digging into his palms instead of the oh-so-fragile wood before retreating. _I’m sorry, Uncle Ben_.

He took one last look back, only to meet the eyes of the man, that _traitor_. Unbidden, he rose up from the waves, his powerful tail holding him waist-high. “I never should have saved you,” he cried into the night, silent but for the slapping of waves against the still-speeding ship. “I should have let you die. I saved your life, I _trusted_ you, and this is how you repay me.” Venom laced his words, scorching him as it poured out of his trembling throat. “Return him and never come back, or the next time I see you… I will kill you.”

Quentin leaned over the railing, as cool as can be, and let a sickly smile pull his cheeks taut, too wide for a human and too gleeful for anyone decent. “No, you won’t, _dear_ Peter.” His eyes glinted in the moonlight with what Peter had once thought was excitement, passion, drive. Maybe it was.

Peter knew he was right, and that was worst of all. A shriek of fury erupted from him, his secondary respiration pushing everything out and through until there was nothing left, until windows shattered and he could hear footsteps echoing through the ship before him.

“Better run, little hero,” Quentin murmured, straightening to greet the others. “I’ll see you around.”

Peter had never felt such impotent rage as he did right then.

Even just now, when he realized that Mysterio had been… had been _Quentin_ this whole time… all he could feel was terror. Why had he come back? He hadn’t brought his ships back, was he just _taunting_ him? Reveling in the knowledge that poor, _stupid_ Peter was in the presence of his greatest nightmare and never even knew it?

And today… today he crossed a line.

\--

Peter knew he’d be fighting someone as he approached, that unique collection of scents marking a confrontation clear as day to his sensitive nose. He knew that there was already a battle going on, fairly small-scale, but including both the villain—possibly Mysterio?—and Wade, as well as a number of other creatures. A shark or two, some jellyfish. There was violence roiling in the water.

He’d gotten rather good at ignoring his other senses during these altercations, they happened nearly twice a month, so he followed his nose to Wade, injured and struggling, tackling him out of the water so he could ask about what had happened.

Unfortunately, Wade was well woven into Mysterio’s net by that point, and apparently so was he; he’d been stabbed and headbutted and had a goddamn blade to his throat that he didn’t even notice until he was leaning just a little too far forward into a kiss that wasn’t, from an embrace that was more of a grapple, in hindsight.

They’d surfaced and seen the ship stringing Mysterio along, an unwanted ornament, and the villain reached into and tore his helmet apart.

Quentin. Quentin had come back, had _been_ back.

Already off-balance from that revelation, his knuckles white, he’d turned back to Wade and it had been Ben. Ben, who looked _so_ disappointed in him.

“Is this what you’re doing, Peter?” he spoke. “Wooing humans? Don’t you remember what happened last time?” Ben began to frown, his brows crinkling together, worried. “You didn’t forget that what you did killed me, did you?”

“No—no I didn’t, I—”

“There’s no need to hide it, Peter. I don’t know what I did to make you hate me so, but you brought in a human, a _team_ of humans to kill me.” His eyes narrowed.

“This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t—you aren’t him!”

“Of course I’m not here. I’m dead, thanks to you. And you’ve endangered the entire city. What would you do if the humans came back again? Do you really trust a human of all people, and a _pirate_ at that, to keep his word?”

“…I…”

“Oh, Peter, did you think he loves you?” Peter felt himself begin to shake as Ben began to swell and rot away, his skin paling into death. His cheek tore away along with part of his nose as his voice began to fade. “Remember what you do to the people you love, nephew.”

And then it was Wade again, and Peter couldn’t stop shaking.

\--

Mysterio—Quentin—crossed a line that he never had before, despite knowing _exactly_ how to get to him. He’d only ever used nearby citizens as Mysterio. Ben was not forgotten, never, ever forgotten, but he was a wound long since scarred over, before… this.

Why now? Why today? What was he… was Quentin…

_Jealous?_

Wade was the first human Peter had saved and allowed to go free since the disaster that resulted from _him_. He’d made the choice to save Wade, to let him go, and then… to keep coming back. It’s been weeks, and he’d never been bad to Peter, had listened, even if there was an ulterior motive.

And he could have been. If he’d wanted, Wade probably could have caught him, gutted him like a fish, especially that first day. Peter was getting careless, of late. He’d been well within view of that other human during today’s altercation, and they seemed very unsurprised to see a mer fighting alongside their captain. Do they know about… all of that? What Wade is doing, why he’s— _they’re_ here?

It’s been… he’s not sure how long. Weeks, at least; months, maybe. It’s still summer, at least, the shallow waters of humans and ships warm as blood.

It all seems to come back to blood.

Peter lets himself slow to a stop, still a bit outside the city. Another ten clicks to his apartment.

Wade could have hurt him badly. There have been plenty of opportunities. It’s still viscerally horrific to think of him hunting his kind, but it’s like he’d said, wasn’t it? His choices were unceasing agony or murder, and even then, once he found that mers were sentient, he was doing his best to hunt someone “bad.”

Melancholy, Peter remembers all the times he’d admired Wade’s ~~markings~~ scars. They’re still beautiful, ever-changing reds and whites that flutter across him like the reflections of the surface on coral, but knowing the pain they cause adds a bittersweet tang. How did Wade feel, then, when Peter had mentioned them so thoughtlessly?

Was that desperation he’d seen at the surface always there? Was Peter just adding to it?

Peter tasts metal as his fangs bite into his lip. He needs to talk to someone.

A flick of his powerful tail turns him towards a different part of the city.

\--

“Why are you asking me about that?” Peter’s friend pulls out a leaning bench and folds his arms forward onto it, his tail curled around the base, flicking nervously. Being a father to so many has tempered him, but Ned never could float still.

Peter flushes. It wasn’t his fault he found history so boring. Applications that make sense now—like the laws of his vigilanteism, the history there—weren’t exactly on the docket, back in school. He’s learning now, dammit.

“No reason,” he says, biting his lip. “I mean… you know what I do in my spare time. I guess I was just wondering why it is that… If it’s really that valuable.”

Peter knows why they stay separate, now, after Beck, after what he’d done to Ben. But why did he— _they—_ bother in the first place? Is mer blood really worth so much?

“I suppose it must be. I mean, blood curses and stuff are a big part of why we’re so secretive, you know? After the Culling a few centuries ago…” Ned shudders. Memories of class vaguely firm up as Ned continues, “Seriously messed up stuff. We’re all sentients and the humans… didn’t care. Tried to put us in _farms_ like we were animals.” A sigh. “I suppose mers could have fought, but they kind of have the advantage in a lot of ways, and it’s not like we can negotiate with those monsters.”

Monsters. Peter seems to be hearing a lot about monsters, these days.

The hero sighs, pushing his drifting hair away from his face. Something must show on his face, so Ned keeps going. “Look, there’s no need to worry, okay? The humans can’t get this deep, yet. Not even close. We’re safe down here.”

“…Yeah.”

“…Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Peter says dismissively, attempting a smile. “Just got some things on my mind.”

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

“Of course I do, Ned. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Well… if you say so. Just let me know. I’m your mer in the chair, right?”

Peter can’t help the soft grin that emerges. “You know it.” Man, he loves Ned.

He’s going to be _so pissed_ when he realizes what Peter’s decided to do.

\--

The problem is, Peter went and made the same mistake twice.

The problem is, Wade needs a cure.

The problem is, Peter went and fell in love with him.

The problem is, he needs to protect all of merkind, not just himself.

Peter does his best to be a good person. He goes to work, he protects people as best he can, he grits his teeth as people deride his alter ego and embraces genuine joy when Ned gushes about his clutch, about his lovely spouse. He comforts his Aunt when she goes into a depressive episode, he donates what he can to charity, he does his damnedest to make sure everyone he loves is _happy,_ because that’s what makes _him_ happy.

But so does Wade.

Wade, the stupid human with the gorgeous pattern and the nonsensical swirls of thought, with his bravado and jokes and honesty and lies. The stupid human with the curse, who’s in pain and was trying to find a solution, who put off his cure for Peter’s sake.

No more.

Mind made up, Peter goes to his desk, pulls out a cord, and begins to knot and coil his feelings into words.

 _Wade_ , it starts, _I forgive you._ It asks for him to stop searching for mers, for a time; to let Peter handle things; for patience. It tells Wade of a surprise, and a visit in the near future. It ends with _Yours, Peter._

If he had the wherewithal, Peter could have written much more, about how angry he was with Wade, his feelings of betrayal and history with Quentin; how he felt like a mer out of water, how he wants him to _stay_ , even if they stay in different worlds, but he was in a rush. There was no real need for it, it had already been nearly a day since he’d dropped from the waves, furious, but Peter is, fundamentally, a mer of action, once a decision has been made.

He coils another pair for Ned and MJ asking them not to interfere, and gathers some bladders and cords, wrapping them around him like a series of satchels. He goes to his office, telling them of a family emergency, and goes to Ned’s, hooking his letter onto one of the decorations protruding from his doorway where he’s sure to see it. He does the same with MJ’s, though hers he slips onto her entry table, her doorway much sleeker than Ned’s.

As he approaches the surface near _The Happy Adventure_ , Peter considers what he’ll do if Wade is awake. It’s night, of course, the black sky distorted through the waves, the moon gleaming and near-full. It’s cool, but it always is, outside of the sea.

There’s no movement he can see on deck, so he swiftly digs his claws into the seams between boards and heaves himself up, crawling as best he can to land on deck with a splat. Peter isn’t fond of moving around on dry land for obvious reasons, but he can smell Wade even now.

He follows the lingering scent of blood and oil, steel and leather, through several hallways, flopping and slithering awkwardly as needed, dragging himself along with his claws as non-destructively as possible, until finally he’s at Wade’s door. It’s not locked, and swings open with a tinny squeal, quiet but sharp as anything. Peter cringes, waiting for a response, but Wade merely shifts a little bit, curling his bare torso ever more tightly against a soft replica of some sort of four-legged creature with a horn on its head, as if a seahorse had been crossed with a narwhal and a thousand shards of glass had vomited a pastel rainbow onto it. He muffles a chuckle at the sight.

Wade’s face is slack with sleep. Not innocent—never innocent—but… his guard is down as he drools onto the creature, and Peter melts. How long has Wade been living like this, that he sleeps so easily? How _used to_ pain is he?

Peter drags himself forward with another _thump_ , bracing himself against the furniture nearby and the spongey material beneath Wade, straightening his tail as best he can to lean above him, still dripping with seawater. The material on the bed is getting wet and cold as Peter drinks the sight in.

It’s always a joy to look at Wade, Peter thinks. His first impression barely did him justice, that day through the sea. He did get one thing right: that jawline is _incredible_. Peter lets his hand fall forward to trail along it, tracing a shining wet path to his ear and down the delicate, scarred skin of his muscular neck to rest on his bare spine, resting there reverently.

He loves this man.

He loves him, and for that reason, he needs to go. He tries to turn away, but can’t quite bring himself to draw away, instead pulling himself just that little bit farther to lean down over Wade and gently press his lips against the other’s. Dry and knitted with scars, like the rest of him. Peter likes it.

Reluctantly, he pulls back, extending his arm as he does until his fingertips, fully extended, can no longer reach Wade. It’s cold in the cabin, he notices, letting himself slide back to the floor. The coil Peter prepared is laid gently on Wade’s nightstand, dripping wet and soaking some flat, beige objects, the black shapes on them growing fuzzy at the edges as Peter watches. Hopefully they weren’t important, whatever they were.

There’s a trail of seawater on the floor, and Peter follows it back to the deck, quietly splashing in said trail as he goes. It’s a relief when he pushes himself off the side, the awful flopping becoming powerful sweeps of his tail once more as he enters the water.

Peter grants himself only a moment to look back, and he unerringly finds the boarded-up windows still edged with shattered glass that border Wade’s room.

He’ll be back soon. Don’t do anything stupid, Wade.

He snorts. Of course he will. Practically everything he _does_ is stupid.

Fortunately for Wade, that stupidity is _clearly_ contagious. Hopefully he’s fast enough to keep anything stupid _and awful_ from happening.

At that reminder, Peter drops beneath the air again, shooting off into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ned: It's a bad idea to interact with humans. We need to Not Do That to keep us all safe.  
> Peter: But what if they're, like, hot and funny tho?  
> Ned: 👀 _What_


	7. The Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned Reeds & MJ are Good Bros™️ even when Peter is being dumb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter from a new perspective! We're comin' up on the end of this arc, y'all!
> 
> CW: self-harm

Ned Reeds has had a charmed life in a lot of ways, and he knows it. His parents were together and supportive of him and his dozens of siblings, until they died peacefully in their sleep, well into his adulthood. He has a job he enjoys, a spouse whom he loves, dozens of children of his own, now. His best friend is a superhero, and lets him help insofar as he can. Ned used to be a lot more active, but he’s settled down, now.

He’ll still support Peter if he asks, of course. And he does, occasionally, but most of his visits now are just that—visits. It’s nice. Calm. If he was being really honest, Ned almost felt an obligation to be a rock for Peter, to serve as the port in the storm that is constantly raging in his life.

Peter has never been able to just float. Not before his abilities, and _certainly_ not afterwards. Sharks die if they stop moving, and while that’s not _strictly_ true for Peter, it certainly feels like it. Rushing everywhere, getting into scraps, dealing with light-to-medium property damage and a generous helping of misplaced guilt.

He always comes through, regardless of how worse for wear, and Ned worries. Usually, that’s just background noise of his life; he worries about a lot of things. He’s a worrier, it happens.

That general tendency cranks into overdrive when he returns from work and sees a coil hanging from his doorway. He recognizes that knotwork; why in the seas would Peter be leaving him a note instead of talking to him like a normal mer?

Besides, they’d spoken just yesterday. The day before? Recently, in any case. Ned frowns as he lifts it off its perch, skimming with concern before he unrolls it to read more in depth. It’s not promising, and his frown grows deeper as he reads.

Then he gets to the vague language around what Peter has planned, and he blanches. He quickly knots a note for his wonderful wife for when she gets home and jets over towards MJ’s.

He’s barely halfway there when he turns a corner and collides with another mer, a profuse apology springing forth before he even processes who it is, only to be cut off almost immediately.

“Good, you’re here. You got one of these too, right?” MJ thrusts a hand forward, holding a near-identical message to the one he’d received. “When did you see him last?”

“Yesterday, I think.”

“You _think_?”

“Time blurs a lot when you have fingerlings, okay?” Ned responds defensively.

“Right. So. Do we think he’s…?”

“That’d be my best guess. We can try his apartment first, but if this is hero stuff? Definitely.”

\--

The pair of friends let themselves into Peter’s apartment. There’s nothing out of the ordinary but for Peter’s absence. He’s usually a bit of a homebody; Ned is always trying to get MJ and Peter to go out and meet people with him and the love of his life, and it rarely works. He just wants them to be happy.

Admittedly, he did stop asking MJ when she was going to get a significant other of her own when she tore into him for assuming she was interested in men. Or women. Or anyone at all.

That doesn’t stop him from trying to play matchmaker with Peter.

In any case, Peter’s apartment doesn’t seem any different than usual, so they nod at each other and head to the refuge.

\--

Neither Ned nor MJ are mer-sharks, but MJ’s nose crinkles in disgust long minutes away from their destination, letting out a sound of mixed disgust and concern and beating her tail just a little harder, weaving through the seagrass. Ned pushes himself to keep up.

A suspiciously metallic smell suffuses the area. A few smaller sharks—not mers, just sharks—linger nearby, scenting the jagged iron of blood, confused as to the source, then dispersing as MJ storms through on a mission towards a large stone face rising first a little, then sharply upward from the sea floor.

“Peter, you fucking dumbass,” she mutters, her nimble fingers seeking along the crevasses of the stone. Ned doesn’t comment; he’s not certain what Peter is doing, but it can’t be anything good with this much blood in the water.

Her hands linger along a deep niche just off-center of the fixture, tracing what might be a seam to a complicated latch up above. She pulls it free just as Ned smoothly pushes what is now clearly a door open. The door, nearly seamless with the rock face surrounding it when closed, opens to release a cloud of rust into their faces, sending them both into coughing fits. The pair rush in in a panic. There’s too much, isn’t there? Peter heals, but how much does he heal? When did he last eat? This feels like—this feels like _way_ too much.

Their eyes meet through the red haze and nod, working together to close the door again. There’s no need to bring more attention than this place already has.

The smooth-sided corridor it twists in every direction for a few moments until it opens into a cavern, a bubble of air at the top. As the two of them swim up towards Peter’s usual spot, the haze grows thicker, stinging their eyes and clouding their lungs.

Ned breaks first, shifting direction to head straight to the surface. The air, stale as it is with only a few sparse cracks leading to the outside, is warm and clear on his breath in comparison to the crime scene below.

And the crime scene above, it seems.

A single glance towards Peter’s preferred perch, a small section where the stone ledge overhangs the pool below by a good half-tail, shows Peter as expected, doing something colossally stupid as expected. He’s so engrossed in the bladder beneath his bleeding wrists, blade in hand, that he doesn’t hear Ned’s approach. Ned isn’t being stealthy.

Before he gets there, MJ bursts from the waters like an avenging demon, knocking the open bladder to the side and adding a brief flood to the trickles of blood— _Peter’s blood—_ running along the crags and joining the rusty clouds below.

“ _What are you doing?!_ ” she roars. Her fury glows in her eyes to hide her terror, an angry flush showing even through the pink sheen lingering on her skin and scales, her hands coming to grasp at Peter’s wounded arms. There are lines and lines of welts, signs of recently-healed incisions, all along his forearms, a morbid, glaring hash.

Peter yelps at the suddenness of her appearance, breaking from his reverie, but Ned can see the shine of sweat on his brow, the tightness at the corners of his eyes and the corners of hip lips as they twist in remorse and determination. Whatever he’s doing, he knew they wouldn’t like it. Well, that makes sense, leaving notes rather than telling them to their faces, but Peter usually isn’t one to shy from conflict.

“MJ? What are you—”

Ned takes that opportunity to pull himself up as well with a _splat_. From his new vantage, he can see more than one more bladder, perhaps a third of them full to bursting and sealed. With what he’d seen a moment ago… “Peter, what… what is all this?

Yesterday, when Peter came to ask him about mer blood, and the humans.

“…Is this about… What _is_ this about? Why…?” he asks, hesitant. MJ is still holding Peter askance, though they both know he could pull away if he really wanted to. She glares at him, eyes sharp, until she feels the skin close over beneath her palms and loosens her grip, letting Peter’s hands drop to his lap. He won’t meet their eyes.

“I…”

“Is it… _Quentin_?” Ned asks. God, he hopes not, but that’s the only human he knows of, and no _way_ would Peter be talking to another after last time. Is he blackmailing him? Threatening their city if Peter doesn’t acquiesce?

But Peter’s face screws up in hatred and pain as he grinds out a negative. “ _No_ ,” he growls emphatically. “ _Fuck_ Quentin.”

“Okay, so not… _him_. Then what? What is going on with you lately? Are you okay? Did something happen?” He really should have addressed this earlier. The last time Peter had pulled away like he had been these past weeks was right after Ben died and he’d broken off with the human. Or the human had broken off with him, Ned isn’t quite sure; Peter didn’t like to talk about it.

“Nothing—"

MJ cuts in through her teeth, “Don’t you _dare_ tell us this is _nothing,_ Peter. What is this for? _Who_ is all _this_ ,” she gestures at the bulbous containers around them, “for? Why the _fuck_ are you hurting yourself like this? You have people who love you, Peter! You can talk to us! Is this—”

“I _know_ that, MJ." Peter’s face softens. “I know that. And I love you too, appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I also—” he seems to be working himself up to something. “I also have someone _else_ I love,” he finishes, quiet.

The silence echoes through the cavern, the only sound the slapping of the water against the precipice upon which they’re all sitting.

“Did they ask you to do this, Peter?” Ned’s voice is cold as the deep trenches.

Their friend seems startled by the question, as if it had never even occurred to him; perhaps it hadn’t. “No!” he replies, almost affronted. “No, he would _never._ Not him. He’s not—he’s not _like_ Quentin, he—" a sigh. “There’s a reason I didn’t tell you about this. I knew you wouldn’t like it, but Wade, he did _not_ ask me to do this. I’m doing it on my own, because I love him.” His chin comes up defensively, even as he cradles his arms to his chest.

One word sticks out to Ned. “…Wade?”

He tells them, and they are not happy. They are, however, his friends, and if he can’t be talked out of this damned foolish plan of his, they can at least make sure he doesn’t kill himself doing it.

It’s a long two days before all of the containers Peter had brought are full, interspersed with forced breaks for sleep and food and drink. The latter usually isn’t an issue, but he insists on staying above the water in an attempt to prevent waste, and by the time they’d arrived his life-blood was flowing thick as islands. Peter always has been self-destructive when it comes to people he cares about.

When he stoppers the last bladder, Peter smiles wanly, letting out a breath of relief just as he sways and falls to the stone, unconscious.

This _Wade_ has some answering to do.

They float vigil until he wakes up, the quiet deafening.


	8. The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadpool springs a trap in fluffy slippers, as one does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I say this with all my heart: reviews give me _life_ and if you review I love you. I also love you if you don't review, but in like, a more abstract sense, you know?

It’s been days since he’d last seen Peter disappear below the waves where he can’t follow. Days since a length of some sort of green rope—a derivative of kelp, maybe?—tied in intricate knots and tucked into a swirl was dropped onto his bedside table, soaking his ship’s inventory and a particularly saucy romance novel to illegibility. Domino was happy to provide an estimate of what they had, and when Blind Al checked, she was spot-on, as usual, so no harm done.

Well, outside of their lack of jerky. The ship is pretty much down to hard tack and what little grog remains, and a balanced diet that does _not_ make. He’s pretty sure that if he wasn’t a cursed freak, he’d’ve gotten scurvy a long time ago.

Huh, maybe that’s why he hasn’t had any more bites. He’s _been_ bleeding off the edge again, chopping off limbs occasionally. Hasn’t gone back in the water, of course, he’s learned his lesson there; Wade may be the Deadpool on board, but he’s far from an apex predator underwater, and he does _not_ want to drown again. Very much not his thing.

Wade rolls over in his bed, lulled by the gentle rocking of his ship in the night, and begins to drift back to sleep.

Then he hears a creak. Normally, this would not be cause for concern in a ship as old as this one. However, in this case, the creak was accompanied by a loud _crack_ , and a thin whooshing. When combined, those three sounds were really quite concerning.

A quick look around reveals nothing in his room, so he dons his fluffiest dressing gown and coolest slippers (they were shaped like unicorns!) and rushes towards the whooshing, pulling on his mask and gloves as he goes. Well, it sounds more like a gushing, now.

Another creak, _crack_ , and whoosh, and he thinks it’s time to wake the rest of the crew.

“ ** _WEE-OO, WEE-OO, EMERGENCY, NOT A DRILL!_** ” he shrieks, crashing the plates protecting his hands together, smacking doors and stomping his feet in a cacophany, delighted at the opportunity. Not that he needs one, of course, but having a reason makes Domino less annoyed with him, and that’s a comfortable place to be.

Another creak, _crack_ , and whoosh, and Deadpool knows what’s going on. He gets to the first leak just as the others do, and he quickly redirects them to the source, lowering the timbre of his voice dramatically. “There’s been a breach, but I can handle that. Get up topside and _spring it_.”

Dopinder stumbles in a moment later. “What? What did I miss? Tell me I didn’t miss anything important.”

If his hands hadn’t been occupied with the emergency repair kit—you know, a pillow and a gigantic pole—Deadpool would have facepalmed. “I was being dramatic, dammit! Go spring the trap, we got a live one here, buckos!”

For his troubles, he gets an elbow to the chest from Blind Al. “Get up there yourself, asshole,” she growls, yanking what she can from his arms and taking over. “I’ve been at sea longer than you’ve been alive, I can handle this.”

“Yeah, that’s fair,” he replies, and starts up towards deck, hearing the thud of footsteps behind him. It’s not _true_ , but it is fair. Another creak, _crack_ , whoosh. They don’t have much time if they want to stay afloat until morning.

They reach the surface, bursting through the last door to the deck, worn smooth from years of use. The starlight glints gently across the moonless sky, across the water below, seemingly continuous all around them. If they weren’t actively being attacked right now, it would be beautiful.

Of course he—if it is the _he_ Deadpool was thinking of—would choose a new moon.

“Okay people, get ready to pull on my word.” Dopinder and Domino rush to their posts, wrapping thick cords around their forearms and bracing their feet against the side.

Deadpool reaches into a coil of rope, piled high where it lay, and retrieves a small box with a long, raised section connected to two long, thin strands of gold, repurposed from some coin Deadpool had laying about. Deftly the two cords are connected to a larger mechanism that Domino had cobbled together for laundry with three bins and a spinning wheel they’d taken from some ignoble Brit, which he began to spin.

He leans his weight into the pedal. It resists at first, heavy and full as the bins are, but eventually relents and begins to pick up speed. When the clothes spinner starts to whistle, Deadpool shouts to the others, “WORD!”

At his word, Domino and Dopinder yank _hard_ and release, letting the of their counterweight full of on-board treasure teeter off the side of the ship and into the depths. It lands with a great _splash_ and pulls several unexpected cords taut. They hold their breath for several seconds, waiting for the desired reaction, and Dopinder lets out a cry of triumph as the fruits of their labor become apparent. A gigantic, loose-woven net flies through the seas beneath them, pulled by their treasure, until it _thwaps_ mightily, gripping the _Happy Adventure_ like a gigantic barnacle all the way around its hull.

There’s a great _thunk_ as something—probably many somethings, to be honest, he feels a little bad about the random fish & shit that’re hanging around, but figures that’ll be dinner for a bit—collides with the ship. The moment he hears it, Deadpool stops directing his efforts towards speeding up the spinner and stomps _hard_ on the small box.

A jolt of lightning sparks through the box and his boot to his foot, leaving a feeling of hornets of all things in his toes, but it’s worth it. An angry buzz roars in the air, the gold sparking flashes of light into anything nearby, Dopinder and Domino both staying safely away. Small tendrils of sweet, acrid smoke curl through the air where the sparks hit the wood of the ship.

Deadpool gives the spinner one more push, just to make sure that anything in contact with that net or its adjacent area was _thoroughly_ stunned, and waits for it to drift to a stop. Once it does, he pulls off a glove and touches the gold. When nothing happens, he gives the all-clear, and Domino and Dopinder begin the long process of pulling it all up.

It takes a while, and Blind Al joins them in the meantime. There’s a shit-ton of water she’s redirected to the bilge, but at least it’s not growing; they can deal with it later.

Perhaps ten minutes and a swap-out later, Deadpool and Domino are hauling the net as Dopinder regales Blind Al of their trap and how it worked, unaware that she’d stopped paying attention quite some time ago and was dozing off where she sat. She’d helped build it.

Then, there’s a sudden increase in weight. The two of them lean over the edge and spot a larger blob than any of the others they’d pulled up, small sharks and such, but even so the weight seems disproportionate.

“Christ, what is this guy made of, lead?!” Deadpool whines, using his bodyweight as a counterbalance. He heals, but Domino doesn’t, and this is frankly ridiculous. “Dopinder, get over here!”

The three of them manage, with considerable effort, to bring the figure up and onto the deck, where Deadpool, at least, collapses dramatically into a puddle with a grunt. He doesn’t need to, he’s already back to peak condition, but it seems appropriate. He turns towards Al and sees her not-looking at him with an eyebrow raised. It’s remarkable how chastised he can feel from a glare-that-isn’t by a woman half his age.

Deadpool pouts, but lifts himself back up to look at the figure.

It’s Mysterio. As he’d thought. He’s not sure whether he’s pleased or not. On one hand, this was the guy who attacked Peter and him last time, and whatever he showed Peter really got to him, so yay! Capture! On the other hand, this particular villain is particularly _useless_ to him for his actual personal need.

Actually, is he? That whole day was confusing as fuck.

Well, waste not, want not. Best get the guy tied up before he wakes up.

“Yo, Al! You ready?”

She jerks awake, and he realizes she wasn’t glaring at him at all; she _absolutely_ is now. “Yeah, yeah, calm your tits, I’m coming,” she replies, standing and dragging over some of the reinforced rope they’d used in the trap. He’s seen how strong Peter is, and while part of that might be the shark bit, he has no real metric for how strong mers in general are. Better safe, then shibari.

Wait.

No, Al is tying him up in a very normal, non-sexual way. Good. He wouldn’t mind Peter in that, the thought of ropes crossing his chest, his arms and tail restrained and hanging from the ceiling like a gorgeous, super-hot mobile is really getting him going. Unfortunately, Peter _probably_ hates his guts right now, so Deadpool shakes his head to focus on the now.

Al is finishing his forearms, tying at the wrists and elbows, when Deadpool reaches out and twists the helmet, removing it entirely. It’s dry in there, and the man is annoyingly attractive, with a short beard and strong nose. Lying there all smug with his full head of hair. Asshole.

As he does, though, he notices that the helmet was attached to something more substantial than he expected. A full suit, harness and all, that connects to what he’d thought was Mysterio’s suit and tail. A lot of it seems to be hidden under the top of his cape; some finagling finds Deadpool a few clasps, which he not-so-carefully releases.

When the cape drops to the floor, he is less surprised than he expected to be when Mysterio’s tail… separates. Falls off. A light yank at the tail itself reveals that _this_ was probably the source of the ridiculous weight; it doesn’t budge. Okay, not a problem; he shuffles around the guy and pulls him out of the contraption, rather than the other way around. Al gives him a disgruntled grumble, but just begins binding his ankles too, cool as a cucumber.

You know, this makes sense. Hey, since Mysterio was a human, maybe it’s not just a Peter-heals-him thing! A weight lifts off his chest. Thank goodness. He still needs to find a mer, but at least this means the witch might not have lied to him and his current plan, basic as it is, can still move forward sans Peter-pain.

Some investigation of the tail shows that it’s not just a structure; it’s… surprisingly complex, with tiny joints and pedals near the bottom, presumably for steering. He finds a propulsion mechanism, too; there’s no way any standard human could have swum around like he did _without_ this heavy-ass tail, let along _with_ it.

Down near the pedals, Deadpool has one more interesting find, this one even more so: what looks like a control panel. Metal, molded to fit around Mysterio’s hips under the tail, and _very_ complex, Deadpool decides to do the logical, reasonable thing, and start pressing and flipping the little controls at random.

This lever flaps the tail; that one turns it one way; this button sends a gust of air up into the person-area; that one—

The stars go dark and he sees a projection of Mysterio looming over the ship. He looks down at where he knows Mysterio lays and sees nothing; he looks up and sees a figure standing, now floating, now Peter and Domino and an older merman he doesn’t know talking all at once and over each other and not at all, now _Francis_ and Deadpool can’t breathe. He’s dead, he’d killed him years, _decades_ ago, yet—

Which button was that? Not this one, not this one, it was in the lower left, he knows, but he just—can’t—find it!!

The flickering continues, it’s now daytime, and now it looks like it’s raining, and now _Peter is Vanessa is Peter is there with Francis_ and he needs to _shut this off_ **_now_**.

He starts to just mash at it, first with knives at the corners to pry up the face, then abandoning those for his fists, then kneeling and smashing it against the deck. It doesn’t so much as dent, even as the wood beneath splinters at the surface. He gropes around for the tail, sure he could use that to smash it when the mechanism is pulled from his hands and the sky is back to twinkling with stars, the crowd of voices gone, Domino standing in front of him holding the panel, her finger lingering over one particular button on the bottom right.

Deadpool blinks heavily and heaves a breath, then another, shaken, before pulling up an attempt at a grin. “Whew, thanks Dom, really helped a guy out.” He holds his hand out for the panel and Domino raises an eyebrow. How does everyone on this ship know how to do that? Did Blind Al lead a class or something?

She waits a moment, just looking at him, really leaning into it, and he wilts. “Yeah, that’s fair. You figure that out while we deal with… this,” he waves at the unconscious man on deck with a pout. Domino always gets the fun jobs.

A pep in her step, Domino spins right around and takes a seat on the outer steps to the helm, already messing with the controls, enthralled by the nothing around her.

Al has just finished tightening her last knot around Mysterio’s ankles when he begins to stir. Eyelids flutter and open, confused, his head lifting to look around. It’s clear the moment he sees Deadpool; eyes narrow, that lovely nose of his crunches in disgust, a sneer spreading across his face.

Well, he supposes this could _also_ be a fun job.

“ _You,_ ” he says.

“Me!” Deadpool replies with a jaunty wave. He wonders what it is that he’s peeved about, whether it’s the defeat earlier, the kidnapping, the general thwarting…

He jerks at his bindings a little, but focuses mainly on Deadpool. “You are encroaching on what’s mine, _pirate_ ,” he growls out. Damn, that’s a little sexy.

“You’re really gonna have to be more specific than that, I encroach on an awful lot, you know,” he gestures vaguely at his crew, a smirk pulling at his lips behind his hastily-donned mask, “ _pirate_ , and all that. Ooh, actually, don’t tell me, let me guess. This area? No? Being the best dressed in this fic? Your cape is very dashing, but it really can’t beat a good duster-sword combo, especially with my sexy pirate boots.” Deadpool’s smirk grows as he continues, “Or is it dearest, darlingest Peter, perhaps?”

Mysterio’s eyes, already slits, crunch up in barely-restrained fury, his legs twitching like he’s attempting to propel himself forward and tear out Deadpool’s throat with his teeth. There’s certainly enough enthusiasm for the idea in his expression.

“Ooh, touched a nerve! Really, it should be the other way around. _Yours_ , really? What are you, an animal?” How many ways is he super off base? Let Deadpool count the ways! He brings up a hand, counting fingers as he goes. “One, Peter isn’t a place or a thing I could encroach on, though damn could I encroach that booty. Metaphorically at least, I have no idea how mers have sex, though I am _way_ more interested in the topic than I thought I would be when I set off. I wonder if it differs based on tail species? Not important right now, that’ll be a conversation between two sane, consenting, super hot adults in the privacy of someone’s boudoir, or cave, or something, I’m really not picky. And I could also totally go for exhibition, if it’s something Petey’s into, but again that’ll be between us whenever the hell he wants because _damn_ am I ready. Two, and more importantly, Peter isn’t _yours_. He’s not mine, either. He’s not anyone’s, doofus, he’s his own mer.”

In hindsight, the counting thing was overkill. So was the dive into sexy business, but he likes thinking about it and it’s not his fault he has no filter. Blame the author.

Mysterio lets out a bitter laugh, a little hysterical. “You only talk like that because he hasn’t left you, yet,” he says with a bloody smile. “He’ll scorn you, too. You’ll see.”

His confusion must show on his mask, or maybe he just really likes to talk. Deadpool can’t relate.

“I could have given him _anything_ ,” he hisses. “Peter saved my life, so I came to save _him_. He never told me outright, but he can’t be happy where he is. His skirt is tattered even now. He was _struggling_. If he’d just _come with me_ instead of fighting it, he could have lived a life of luxury!”

“Okay, so I really get the feeling you’re not big on the whole ‘consent’ thing, so—”

“Do you have any idea how much people will pay for even a glimpse of a mer? A drop of its blood?” Mysterio steamrolls right over him, madness glinting in his eyes. “We’d never want for anything again!”

“Again, feels like there’s a key party involved that you didn’t really _consult_ —”

“But no! The idiot had to resist, and I got stuck with that _other_ mer, much older and less attractive, so he wasn’t much good as a show, and a few measly pints of blood sold nearly emaciated him.” He scoffs. “It was almost a relief when I got rid of him. Worthless.”

“You know, that does explain his _aggressive_ reaction to the whole looking-to-harvest-someone’s-blood thing. Not that an aggressive reaction isn’t reasonable anyway, but like… shit, man, that’s fucked up. You fucked up big time, boyo.” He pauses. “Wait, _you’re_ the human he saved that betrayed him? The one that made him distrust our _entire species_?”

“I didn’t betray him! Peter betrayed _me_. He could have had _everything_ , but instead he threatened to _kill_ me,” Mysterio snarls.

“Yeah, me too, you ain’t special. I mean, he couldn’t have if he tried, the adorable, sexy ball of cotton candy that he is, but still!” A pause, the two of them just staring at each other. Deadpool vaguely notes Dopinder and Blind Al hauling fruitlessly at the treasure counterweight; he’ll need to get that later.

Something registers in his mind. “Wait, you _did_ capture a mer? What?”

“It wasn’t _Peter_ ,” Mysterio hisses, vitriol spewing out of his blowhole.

“Sure, but it was still a mer, what happened to them?”

Mysterio scoffs again. “As I said, _worthless_. It took no time at all for it to stop being able to give blood and it got too sickly to keep, so I sold it.”

“Dude, you are _such_ a piece of shit. Stop calling them an _it_ , you know damn well they’re a _they_ , or a _he,_ or a _ze_ or something, I never did ask Peter about mer-pronouns. They’re a _person_ , and you just—sold one? Fuck, you’re literally treating them like objects, the one you captured and Peter both! They’re not _objects_ , dickwad, and if you think for a _second_ that I agree with you on anything beyond your stupid-gorgeous hair you’re wildly mistaken.

“Is Peter super fucking hot? Yes, 100%. But he is a super-hot _person_ , with an equally super-hot brain, a person I would dearly like to fuck into oblivion, or get fucked into oblivion, again I don’t know how things work with mers but it’s _his choice_. Do I wish he’d _choose_ to come back to me? Absolutely! But I’m not about to force it, especially since it would be very reasonable for him to never want to see me again!”

_Splat._

Deadpool freezes, poised to continue. He knows that sound.

“Is it true, Quentin?” a shaky tenor rings out behind Deadpool. He turns to see Peter, gorgeous arms ramrod straight and flexed, his muscular gray tail taking up more of his attention than it has any right to, and goddamn it Wade needs to _focus_.

“…Peter? I didn’t—”

“Wade, I love you, but not now.” He loves him? There’s hardly time to register before Peter continues. “He—Ben survived?” Peter’s voice is thin yet with a core of strength, lace woven of steel. He’s paler than he ought to be, Wade thinks. His arms are trembling in the effort of supporting his weight, or maybe in the cold of a cloudless night, but either way there’s something deeply wrong here.

“Oh, yes, Peter. He did, for a time.” Mysterio’s grin grows ever more vicious, wider and with more teeth than can possibly be comfortable, and spins pain with every word. “And you abandoned him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could you tell I had fun trying to figure out how you'd get an electrified net out of pirate scraps? Because I had a _ton of fun_ with that.


End file.
